


The Earl of York

by CreativeLiterature



Category: Alias (TV), Downton Abbey, Entourage (TV), The Devil Wears Prada (2006), The Good Wife (TV), Will & Grace
Genre: Gay Sex, M/M, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 50
Words: 87,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28995459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeLiterature/pseuds/CreativeLiterature
Summary: Restrained and refined, the future Earl of York contemplates a future of rites and rituals, none of which allows for him to confront the carnal pleasures deep within (or, a shameless self insert sleeping with fictional characters, puffed up with faux-British bluster).Originally finished six years ago, barely touched since then. If you skim enough, you can just jump to the explicitly (M/M) scenes.Please note, this was never written to be actually published online... it is more a diary of want and hope and need, than a cohesive story.
Kudos: 2





	1. So close you can taste it

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction and didn’t happen. No libel or slander intended; no profit is being made. The events portrayed in this story are fictional and do not reflect on the actual people written about.
> 
> I wrote this at a low period of my life, full of musings and what I imagined intimacies to be, when my sex drive was at its lowest its ever been. The protagonist may come across as a narcissist-hypocrite-"I'm not like other guys", but if not for this outlet, it would stay on my computer and perhaps it should have!

I looked out the window at the view as the private jet taxied to the runway, slowing down as it neared the hangar. A handsome, male steward in a white uniform walked the length of the Gulfstream and said, “Sir, we’ve arrived.”

I unbuckled my seat and stood, accepting the glass of water he proffered on a sterling silver tray. I downed it one gulp and passed the empty glass back to him.

“Thank you, James,” I said, moving past him to the cabin door. “Enjoy your day.”

I walked down the set of steps onto the tarmac, where bright sunlight blinded me and I put on a pair of Ray-Bans to defend my eyes against the glare. A waiting Mercedes-Benz sedan with a black-suited chauffeur greeted me. He held the door open and I entered the air-conditioned comfort of the car, buckling myself in as I settled on the black leather seat.

“Where am I taking you, sir?” asked the chauffeur, his black cap peeking over the headrest.

“The Bel-Air hotel, please,” I said, as he started the engine and I glanced out the tinted window.

My cell phone rang and I retrieved it from the pocket of my jeans, answering it.

“Dan?”

“Yes, this is me,” I replied, recognising the voice but failing to place it.

“It’s Tyler! You arrived yet?”

“I’m on my way to the hotel as we speak.” I saw palm trees beside huge McMansions and manicured lawns on every property.

“Don’t stay at some crummy hotel!”

“It’s the Bel-Air,” I replied. “It’s not  _ that _ crummy.”

“Use our spare bedroom,” said Tyler, a smirk in his voice. “We’ve got plenty to choose from.”

“Aren’t you inviting about a hundred guys to your place tonight? Where will I fit in?”

“You’ll fit in just fine,” he grinned, and I blushed, glad to be shielded behind my Ray-Bans.

“I’ll think about it, Tyler. I’ll see you tonight,” I hung up the phone, taking a sip from the bottled water in the mini fridge.

The car pulled up to the forecourt of the Bel-Air, fringed with manicured box hedges and a high brick wall. I stepped out of the sedan before the chauffeur could open the door for me and allowed the porter to accept my luggage as I strolled into the lobby.

“Welcome to the Bel-Air, sir,” the receptionist smiled pearly whites, handing me a keycard. “Your room is ready. Penthouse suite on the top level.”

“Thank you.” I smiled back.

I walked towards the private elevator, followed by the porter with my luggage. I swiped my keycard against the reader and entered the vestibule, while the porter, a pimply teenager with a sheen of perspiration dotting his forehead, awkwardly tried to fit in the cramped space without getting too close.

“Would you press the button, please?” I asked, relegated to the corner while he stood adjacent to the display.

“Yes, sir.” He pressed the button and we ascended in silence.

The elevator opened out into a magnificent living room, and the porter shuffled forward out of my way as I discarded my glasses onto a console table and looked out at the view. It was spectacular for three in the afternoon.

“Where would you like me to put your luggage, sir?” asked the sweaty porter.

“Just leave it there,” I said, handing him a ten dollar note from my wallet. “Thank you.”

I entered the bedroom, where a large king-sized bed made with Egyptian cotton sheets and a gold leaf duvet folded at the base. I picked up the hotel line and dialed reception.

“Good afternoon. I’d like to send for drycleaning and order room service.”

I crossed the bedroom to the ensuite bathroom, adequately prepped with a rain shower, porcelain toilet and ornate claw-foot tub. Stripping my clothes off and leaving them on the tiled floor, I stepped into the rain shower and basked in the feel of jets pounding my body while massaging shampoo into my hair.

I emerged from the bathroom, steam escaping to form a little cloud as I toweled my hair dry and changed into a white T-shirt over jeans. My blonde hair was slicked back and my fair skin slightly tanned from the humidity. I picked up the hotel phone and dialed reception.

“I’d like to arrange a limousine to Rodeo Drive, please. Thank you.”

Ten minutes later, I exited the limousine onto the hot pavement, amid shoppers carrying bright carrier bags with logos emblazoned in shiny initials. I bypassed the crowd into a Louis Vuitton where I was greeted by cool air-conditioning, quiet elegance and the sleek, black-suited effusiveness of a salesperson with slicked back hair.

“Good afternoon, sir. How may I assist you?” he smiled with his pearly white teeth.

“I’m interested in finding something for tonight,” I said, browsing the racks of expensive shirts, couture denim and polished loafers. “We’ll see.”

I left an hour later clutching a white carrier bag, emblazoned with the bold LV logo. I entered the limousine and watched the shops pass by as it drove me back to the hotel, so I could order lunch on the balcony in my suite and watch the civilians chat below.

Tyler’s party was due to start at eleven; fairly late, but then again, it  _ was _ the west coast. I had dinner at eight in the hotel’s restaurant, and on my way back to the elevator there was a deluge of well-dressed, beautiful young men and women ready for the hottest, hippest clubs in LA. The electric grid of Bel Air was open for all denizens of the bright city to party.

I checked my reflection once before I left the hotel for the waiting limousine downstairs. My face was flawless, over aristocratic cheekbones. Ice-blonde hair, with my fringe slicked back. Bright blue eyes, with a stoic expression underneath.

I was only twenty-four, and as you might have deduced, privately wealthy. But underneath my veneer of polished prosperity, I was quite alone in the world.

The limousine drove into a gated community, where tall, elegant mansions stood facing immaculate gardens and palm trees rising high on the pavement. Composed, I sat with my palms clasped in my lap and my usual confidence waning to an intangible anxiety. I had only met Tyler once, and after realising the extent of my family’s power he made it a personal mission to ensure I attended every event he hosted. I was out of the country for all except this one. He was a typical, trust-fund LA party boy.

Driving through the wrought-iron gates, the limousine parked in the forecourt of what was an immense, three-storied mansion with a view over the city lights. I exited with help from my chauffeur and heard the distinct sounds of music, alcohol, male cheer and splashing as I stood at the front door, framed by potted palm trees. I pressed the doorbell and waved thanks to my chauffeur as he drove out of the driveway.

“Dan!” Tyler stood in the doorway, red-faced and clutching a glass of champagne as he hooted behind him. “Boys! Dan’s here!”

They replied with indiscriminate cheers as Tyler ushered me through, slightly spilling his glass of champagne on the foyer’s marble floor. Twin staircases leading up to the second floor flanked the archway which led through to a grand living room, full of leather chairs, a brandy cabinet and a roaring fireplace.

“How’ve you been, Dan?” grinned Tyler, flinging his arm around my shoulder. I resisted the urge to shake him off. “Last time I saw you was at that party in… Majorca, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” I said, as he led me down a hallway lined with plush white carpeting and vases of flowers at every turn. “You went home with the bartender - “

I was startled to hear how loud his laugh was, raucous as he lead me through the restaurant-grade kitchen equipped with chrome appliances. He shook my shoulders rambunctiously and stood outside a pair of French doors which looked out onto the courtyard. An infinity pool spilled out onto the landscape on a brick patio, where shirtless guys with toned stomachs wore tight briefs and clutched bottles of Budweiser or swam laps in the pool.

“Quite the turnout,” I said, feeling quite conspicuous in my conservative threads. “If I had known you were throwing a pool party, I would’ve brought my swimming trunks.”

“I have a spare pair in my bedroom. Upstairs, first room on the right.” said Tyler, removing his T-shirt in one fluid motion. His sculpted six-pack stood out amid his laissez-faire expression and tousled blonde hair. He smirked as he unbuckled his belt and let his shorts drop to the tiled floor, revealing a pair of tighty-whitey Calvin Klein boxer shorts.

“Won’t they turn transparent?” I asked, trying not to gawk.

He shrugged, thumbing the waistband of his briefs and pulling them down to his ankles, freeing a rock-hard erection framed by no visible inch of hair. I tried not to look.

“Come on, Connecticut,” he smirked, patting me on the shoulder. “Live a little!”

He exited amid cheers and jeers, and I couldn’t help wondering what kind of night he had in mind as I took the stairs to the second floor and walking along the hallway, finding Tyler’s bedroom door ajar and pushing it open, feeling like an intruder.

The bedroom was massive, undeniably one of the biggest rooms in the manse. There was a lounge suite in one corner, facing a plasma TV with an array of the most up-to-date gaming consoles; a minibar with red leather seats facing the counter and a shelf of alcohol behind it; and underneath a mirrored ceiling sat a super sized bed made with silk sheets as black as ink and a red throw amid the black background.

“Wow,” I said out loud, despite myself. It would never be within my taste to decorate in such a lavish, overstated style.

I made my way over to the entrance to a walk-in closet, where shelves of clothing jostled for space with an inhumanly large mirror. I found a pair of swimming trunks - designed with the flag of the USA in mind - and stripped off my clothing, save my underwear, which I would wear underneath. I crossed the carpet barefoot while folding my clothes and placing them on a side table before taking a deep breath.

“Dan! What took you so long?” shouted Tyler, straddling an inflatable recliner in the middle of the pool. Amid his dripping wet hair and muscular, tanned body, his erection remained strong like a buoy in the harbor.

“I had to find your bedroom,” I said.

“Won’t be hard after tonight, aye boys?” grinned Tyler, glancing over his shoulder. His friends cracked up laughing and shared condescending criticism out of earshot.

I walked over to the barbeque, where a tall, handsome guy tended to the meat patties and served them onto gilded plates with squirts of mayonnaise and ketchup.

“Want a wiener?” he grinned. He wore a full-length white apron with a ‘KISS THE COCK’ slogan. “They’re piping hot.”

“You’re a picture of subtlety,” I smiled, despite myself. “How much did Tyler have to pay you to wear that apron?”

“I charged him extra for this,” he said, turning his back on me to reveal a backless apron and a broad, smooth back to his sculpted, firm ass. He smirked and shrugged as he flipped a burger. “It’s costing him.”

“I bet.” I looked around the balcony, filled with gorgeous hunks in their swim trunks. “Is there something I’m missing here?”

“I’d say you’re the odd one out at this party,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Why don’t you go for a dip?”

“I’m not sure this is my crowd,” I replied. The loud hoots of another guy dive-bombing the pool echoed across the landscape, while someone popped the cork of a champagne bottle. A line of cocaine cut with a razor was attracting quite the crowd.

“You’re not from California?” he ventured, twiddling with the knobs on the dial.

“Connecticut, originally. I spend a lot of time traveling overseas,” I said.

“These boys are always traveling,” he jerked his head in the direction of Tyler and rolled his eyes, smirking. “I’m called on to host their impromptu parties.”

“How long are you paid to stay?” I found myself asking.

“I usually leave once they start fucking each other,” he grinned to my visible display of shock.

“You’re joking1”

“I kid you not,” he said, climbing onto the stool beside him. He spread his bare legs and the apron covered what hung in between. “They get pretty crazy. I’m glad I don’t have to clean up their mess after.”

I turned back to the pool party, which had become a touch more risque during my absence of attention. No longer the only one naked, Tyler had influenced one of his guests to strip nude and engage another in a fierce round of tongue kissing and vigorous groping. Tyler caught my glance and I froze.

“Dan! Get over here,” he slurred.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I replied, quite out of sorts with my environment. All the guys were in various states of undress and had no intention of casual chatter. The atmosphere grew suddenly very cold.

“I get it, Connecticut. You want it in the bed, where it’s comfortable,” he rolled his eyes, disembarking his inflatable recliner with a splash and making his way across the pool to the set of steps leading onto the patio.

“I-I - um,” I stuttered, uncertain for the first time that night. “I think I’m going to go, actually - “

“You’ve got everything you could want right here.”

Dripping wet from the pool, he swaggered across to me, indifferent to his nudity. I inadvertently glanced south and he smirked as he followed my gaze. “Oh, you’ll have it, Danny boy. Upstairs?”

This was one moment in my life I hesitated with infinite uncertainty. My East Coast upbringing heralded civility and conservatism; while here, in the flesh, was a chance to experience a new life of wild thrills.

“Thank you for inviting me, Tyler. I should head back to the hotel - “

Tyler reached for my arm and I turned, uncomfortable with the close proximity his face was on mine as he pulled my neck in and kissed me roughly, deeply, with the kind of slobbery taste that leaves saliva around the lips. I pulled away, eyes wide, looking at this fame-seeker with dawning realization.

“You’re hard to get, Danny boy,” he slurred, smirking. He rested one hand on his hip, the other stroking the side of my cheek. “You’re not used to LA, are you?”

“I’m afraid I’m not,” I smiled valiantly, trying not to wound his pride. “I’ll collect my things from your bedroom and I’ll go.”

I turned on my heel and walked inside, through the kitchen and into the foyer, walking up the stairs and heading into Tyler’s bedroom. I stripped off the swimming trunks, tossed them into the laundry hamper and began to dress when I heard footsteps and looked up. Tyler was leaning against the doorframe, a wry smile playing on his lips, his washboard abs wet and erect dick jutting upwards from between his legs.

I managed a coy smile despite feeling supremely invaded.

“This isn’t a peep show, you know.”

He walked towards me purposefully.

“What will it take to change your mind?” Tyler cocked his head to the side and smirked. “You’re like a closed book. I’m very eager to see what gets you excited.”

He reached out his hand and stroked my cheek, in a manner so suggestive my hormones inflamed and for one crazy moment, I considered giving in to my impulses.

My underwear felt as thin as gossamer with his gaze upon them.

“Tyler, you seem to have your pick of perfect men down below.”

“Mmmh,” he shrugged it off with a smile, relaxing on his bed with his hands behind his head. He looked every bit the sexual fiend. “I’d rather have you down below.”

If I acknowledged his knowing smirk, I would fall to pieces right then and there. In the second I hesitated, I surmounted what little self-restraint I had left and said, “Tyler, you want to know what gets me excited?”

He smirked and leaned closer, the clean, lemony smell of his skin distracting me for a second. “What’s that, Danny boy?”

I leaned closer to his ear, lowering my voice to a whisper: “I enjoy fully exploring a man’s body, with more than just touch and tongue, and a one-night stand won’t satisfy any urges I’ve bought tonight.”

I turned on my heel and collected my bundle of clothing, walking across the carpet, made slightly damp from Tyler’s footsteps, and glad that he did not respond as I walked down the staircase and into the cold breeze outside.


	2. Fruit hanging ripe

I opened my eyes to the rich sunlight pouring through the windows and snuggled sleepily into the covers, wrapping the thick cotton bedspread around my neck. I turned my head away from the searing sunlight and glanced at the alarm clock on my bedside. It was nearly 9 am.

I rang downstairs for room service breakfast, arranged a chauffeur to be on-call all day and pushed aside the coverlet as I padded my way across the carpet to the bathroom, turning on the jets and massaging my body with liquid soap and fresh shampoo. When I finished, I dried myself with a fluffy towel, wrapped myself in a white toweling robe and helped myself to the breakfast laid out in the dining room. The sun shone in from the open bay windows, curtains fluttering in the breeze, and I glanced out to the golden landscape of LA beyond.

I was startled by the insistent buzzing of my phone, and read ‘caller unknown’ on the display when I answered.

“Hello?”

“Dan. It’s Tyler,” I could hear the smirk down the phone. “How badly do you ache now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said coolly. “Do you have a reason for calling?”

“How about we meet for lunch?”

“I already have plans for lunch,” I said. “Tyler, what is it you hope to achieve by pestering me so?”

“I want you, Dan,” his voice gave me shivers, not unpleasantly. “I’ll have you one way, or another.”

“I have no interest in promiscuity,” I replied.

“You have an interest in being the only one in a guy’s eyes,” Tyler replied. “And if that’s what you want, I’ll give it to you.”

I shivered despite the morning warmth. “You’re a sex fiend, Tyler.”

“That doesn’t have to change,” he grinned down the line.

I was silent for a moment.

“I’ll get back to you.”

I dressed into a blue shirt and jeans, taking the private elevator down to the lobby and greeting the chauffeured limousine by the forecourt.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, tipping his cap as he held open the back door for me.

“Where to?”

I hesitated, standing in the streaming sunlight as the chauffeur’s hand rested on the door handle, clad in a handkerchief to prevent metal burn.

If I was to ingratiate myself into LA, find out what life was really like here…

“The Porsche dealership, please,” I said, tucking myself into the air-conditioned, leather comfort of the back seat as he closed the door behind me.

The limousine traveled easily through traffic, and as I glanced outside I imagined how hot it would be, each and every day. LA was known for its sun and surf.

The limousine stopped in front of the Porsche dealership, large windows with sun streaming in and polished floors with chrome countertops. I stepped outside and breathed in the summer air, the thick scent of humidity and mingling, perspiring masses with loud chatter, birds cawing and traffic honking.

The dealership was quiet, with only the footsteps on the polished tiles to be heard. A black-suited Asian customer was being tended to by a salesperson who spoke in rapid Japanese, while I glanced around and immediately caught the eye of a passing salesperson. He wore his hair slicked back and clasped his hands upon noticing my expensive finery and placid expression.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, noticing the discreet platinum Rolex on my wrist. His smile became broader. “How may I help you?”

Half an hour later, I emerged the owner of a brand-new silver convertible coupe. I drove out into traffic, the wind whipping through my hair from the retracted rooftop, the air conditioning helping to cool me from the intense heat.

My cell phone rang insistently from within my pocket, and by the time I found a parking space to safely answer it, it had gone to voicemail. I redialed the number.

“Hey, I just missed you.” came the reply.

“Steve. From Tyler’s party?” I asked.

“That’s the one. I’m in town as we speak.”

“I’ll come to you,” I said, feeling like I was plucking a forbidden fruit. “I might be a bit late. I don’t know many of LA’s streets very well.”

“Take your time,” came his reply, and I smiled as I hung up.

I entered the location he gave me into the onboard GPS, and it helped navigate me to the pier. I parked and walked along the wooden structure, passed by children who outran their parents, glimpsing through mounted binoculars or forming a queue to the amusement park rides. Beyond was the sandy, white beach, where sunbathers lay shirtless on towels or under parasols. Surfers waxed their boards and ran for the waves. Parents knelt beside children to help construct sandcastles. Picnic spreads here and there with families who offered each other paper plates with packaged salads and plastic cups with fresh lemonade.

I had my first glimpse of Steve leaning out on the balcony of the pier. His tanned arms showed off his biceps in a short sleeved T-shirt and the dark blue jeans he wore fit him perfectly. His hair was ruffled from the air and while his facial features were not as perfect as Tyler’s, his slightly disjointed nose, gaunt cheekbones and tanned skin made him look positively attractive. He turned, saw me and smiled - and my heart skipped a beat. My face didn’t dare show anything of the kind.

“Good afternoon,” I smiled, as Steve walked over to me. He walked with a steady kind of gait and I immediately remembered how he looked at Tyler’s party, flipping burgers: nude but for a thin apron. I delighted to remember him showing me his bare behind.

“Daniel,” he smiled, holding out his hand. I shook it and felt a jolt go through me. He was so undeniably attractive, in a salt of the earth kind of way. “Shall we begin your tour?”

Steve was born and raised in LA, and he knew all the places to be and go. He showed me the best place to buy strawberries and when the best wine came on offer; where to exercise if gyms were of interest or if I preferred to run along the beach; the Hollywood Strip, where cameras flashed aplenty and not a celebrity was to be seen.

By the time it was evening, it had become cooler and we had returned to the pier.

He admired my ride as I drew the keys from my pocket and whistled, commenting on numerous features of the mechanics which baffled me but delighted him.

“It was nice to see you,” I said, holding out my hand, and he shook it. I wanted to hold his hand in mine forever. “Thank you for showing me around the city.”

“Not at all,” he smiled. When I turned to enter my car, I had to force myself not to glance back.


	3. Delayed gratification

When I returned to the hotel, I was relieved of my Porsche by the valet, who drove it down to the underground garage. I crossed the lobby and took the private elevator up to my suite. I inhaled the fresh, cool air from within the quiet apartment, noticing that housekeeping had visited to change the sheets on the bed, replace the towels in the bathroom and generally tidy the suite so it looked sparkling new and clean.

It was evening and darkness blanketed the views around the suite, so that the stars above looked down upon the glittering lights of the city below. I sat on the chaise longue, set up my laptop on the coffee table in front of me and typed a few search words into Google. Within seconds, I had a veritable list of gay bars in LA.

I left the laptop running and the episode of  _ Entourage _ playing in the background, while I showered thoroughly and compiled an outfit to wear in my mind. Half an hour later, dressed in a tan trench coat over a blue shirt with navy jeans, I called down for the valet to meet me out front with my Porsche. I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink as I spritzed myself lightly with cologne, angling my face this way and that. I looked perfect, for most events. But not for a night out in LA.

I met the valet in the forecourt, taking my keys from him and getting into the driver’s seat, the comfortable leather beneath my rear. I retracted the roof so I could feel the cool night’s air, set my GPS and drove out into the traffic.

It was not long before I arrived at the gay nightclub, packed to excess with stragglers and smokers congregating outside. I parked a block beyond and walked the rest of the way, approaching the neon-lit establishment with a rainbow flag hoisted high, and walked up the steps, past the bouncer who checked my ID and into the bar.

An immersive, dark space met my eyes, illuminated at intervals with flashing strobe lights and multicolored beams. Music pounded to a tempo, loud enough to drown conversation of any kind. I squeezed through packs of people, dancing close together either in pairs or groups, and made my way over to the bar, underlit with a row of stools. Shirtless bartenders passed drinks over, mixed martinis and handled cash all the while.

The compressed heat and noise was making my shirt stick to my back. I discarded my trenchcoat to a bored girl manning the coat check and turned back to the crowd at large. Benches lined one end of the room, some more discreet than others and concealing half-naked love buds engaged in more than making out. I turned to the bar, glancing at the array of bottles behind the bartenders with erect nipples and tried to make sense of the labels - 

I was shoved aside as a pair of guys leapt for the bar, both shirtless and painted with dramatic makeup. Their bodies were thin and taut in a way mine simply wasn’t, with hair that jutted upward and the undeniable passion of lovers as they grasped their foaming bottles of Budweiser and rejoined the crowd.

I turned away from the bar and immediately collided with someone much taller than me, leaking liquid down both our shirts from the sopping wet bottle he held.

“I’m so sorry,” I tried to ignore the stench of alcohol and glanced up at his face.

“Hey, no problem.” he said, his grin evident in his tanned face. His hair was gelled up and his Brooks Brothers shirt was soaked, to his chagrin. “You’re not the first guy I’ve seen wet tonight.”

His smile was broad and revealed rows of pearly whites. He was unshakably confident.

“I’m Daniel,” I offered my hand, and he cocked his head, eyeing me with a grin before shaking it.

“You’re too polite to be from LA,” he remarked, taking a swig of his Bud. I could feel the stain soaking my chest. “Scott. Where are you from?”

“I’m visiting for a few weeks, then returning overseas.”

“Ah.” he nodded and seemed to consider this, eyeing me and smiling. “So where are you staying at?”

I smiled broadly despite myself and bowed my head to hide how inflamed my face had become. I glanced up at him and turned a shade more red. He was smirking at me in that way when you know the war’s already won.

“Dan!”

I turned and saw Tyler, flanked by three friends, making his way over to me through the crowd. He and his model perfect friends all shared the same laugh of camaraderie, and between them shared the same taste in showing skin and designer labels about their person.

“Tyler,” I said, noticing his friends were different from those at his BBQ party. “Nice to see you again.”

Tyler introduced me to his friends but their names passed through my mind as quickly as their handshakes, for it was clear that they considered themselves too beautiful to deign being seen with someone who looked so conservative.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, smirking as he advanced on me. He glanced at Scott, who wasn’t the type of guy to back down from a challenge. “Who’s he?”

“This is Scott,” I said, glancing up to his wry smile. I turned back to Tyler and his friends, who remained steadfast in their determination not to acknowledge him.

Scott launched an arm around my neck, vice grip style, and shouted into my ear, “Shall we get out of here?”

I turned to him and understood his coded glance: we were being snubbed.

“Certainly,” I smiled, turning to Tyler. “Nice to see you again, Tyler.”

I allowed Scott to lead me through the nightclub, where I felt his hard body press against mine more than once and his hand grip my shoulder gently but firmly.

When we emerged into the cool night air, he let go and I thanked him for his help.

“He’s an ass,” said Scott, and I laughed.

“You’re right.” I swept a hand through my hair and glanced down at the damp patch on my shirt which had soaked through. “If I don’t change my shirt I’m going to smell like beer all night.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with that?” he led me down the steps to where a number of taxis lined the street, ready to drive drunk patrons home. I followed him and we stood face to face. “You’ll be sticky soon enough.”

I felt as though this man would enjoy every inch of me and my urges shook the bars of their constraints, trying to move closer to this man but every instinct telling me to do the opposite.

“Scott, would you like to hang out tonight?”

“We’re hanging out,” he smiled, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you mean - “

“Yes. You know what I mean.”

“Alright,” he grinned. “Where are you staying?”

I departed in my car before he did, giving my Porsche to the late-night valet and walking fast across the lobby to the private elevator. I took it to my suite and rushed into the bathroom, brushing my teeth and gargling mouthwash before spitting it into the sink. I had just finished washing my face with a cloth when the phone on the bedside table rang and I leapt to answer it.

“You have a visitor, sir.”

“Send him up,” I said, hanging up and taking a deep breath to calm my nerves.

I walked slowly into the foyer, wiping my hands on my jeans and remembering too late my shirt was soiled. I turned to rush into the bedroom to change, but the doors slid open and suddenly Scott was there, his hair slicked back with newly applied gel, cologne overpowering as before.

“Glad you made it,” I said, as he walked close to me. I forced myself to be cordial and turned to walk into the living room and heard his footsteps behind me.

I settled on the couch, awkwardly fiddling with the TV remote in my attempt to mute the programme. I felt an overwhelming urge despite my attempts to restrain it and remain civil, but one glance at his smirking face and I leapt on him, straddling him on the chair, my hands on his shoulders as his rested on my back, stroking it gently as we kissed, his tongue dominating mine as I laid wet kisses over his lips and neck.

He ran his hands across my cotton shirt and down to my hips, running his fingers underneath my shirt and reaching up to unbutton it while his face was cradled in mine.

His mouth became more urgent on mine, parting my unbuttoned shirt to touch my chest, and he groaned low in his throat when I reached down to massage his thighs, clothed in tight denim. I felt a distinct vibrating and realised it was coming from his cell phone.

“I’ll be quick,” he said, distinctly irritated as he set me aside on the couch and reached into his pocket to answer it. “Scott Lavin speaking.”

I continued to burn with urge as he left the room to talk, and when he came back he wore a pained expression.

“Hey, I hate to do this…”

The fire continued to burn in my loins but I compressed it into a smile. “Let me guess. You have an emergency to tend to.”

“I want this,” he replied, running his hands over my arms and to my sides, stroking his thumbs across where my shirt parted to my chest. “I want you… but I have to leave.”

His closeness inflamed me and his cologne intoxicated me, and before I knew it his mouth was on mine, hungrily devouring my lips and tongue. He pulled away suddenly and his smirk was devious.

“I’ve really got to go,” he said apologetically, glancing again at my bare chest. “One of my clients just called.

“Your clients?”

“Yeah. I’m a talent agent,” he said.

“Wow,” I said. My body ached too much to care. “That’s pretty impressive. I’ll show you out.”

“You free this weekend?” he asked, as we entered the foyer together and he entered the elevator.

I was surprised by his offer, but forced myself to shake my head. “Next weekend, perhaps?”

“Sure,” he grinned, giving me one last appraising, hungry look.

I smiled and bid him good night, turning to head for bed as the elevator doors slid shut behind me.


	4. Brimming with hope

I woke to the sun streaming in my windows, enjoying the bliss of a Saturday morning and nothing to do. The pillows were soft and the sheets warm and cuddly, and when I pulled them closer to my body clad only in underwear I remembered last night and the ache began to return… oh, how I wanted Scott, how badly I wanted him.

I reached for the phone and ordered room service for breakfast, then threw back the covers and padded across to the bathroom, where I showered and dried and brushed my teeth, looking back at my reflection in the mirror as I applied face cream and put on the white toweling robe.

I walked into the dining room, where a veritable spread of pastries and cereals were set out beside a bowl of fruit, where the refreshments came in at a plunger of black coffee, a teapot of mandarin tea and a jug of iced lemon water.

I turned on the TV in the living room while I poured myself coffee and listened to the early morning news as I ventured out onto the balcony, clad in the white toweling robe. I looked out over mid-morning LA and sipped the hot beverage with its delicious bitter taste.

I ate breakfast and changed into a white buttoned shirt with tan shorts and sandals, before leaving the hotel in my Porsche. The day was bright and clear and sunny, and the wind whipped through my hair as I drove into the busy shopping district and parked on Rodeo Drive, between a red Ferrari and sleek black Mercedes.

I picked the Armani boutique and thanked the doorman as I enjoyed the hushed, sleek atmosphere with effusive salespeople and ponderous customers. I picked out a few pairs of swimming trunks in black, navy blue and forest green, trying them on in the changing room and deciding they would fit perfectly. When I approached the counter and handed my purchases to the salesman, he accepted my black American Express with a smile and handed me a discreetly logoed tote bag. I thanked him and left.

I drove further into the city and visited Barnes & Noble to buy a few books and Harrods to buy a fresh, gourmet hamper. By the time I had arrived at the beach it was packed full of people: families sharing food while the kids played in the sand and ate with sticky fingers; surfers with washboard abs outdoing one another on the waves; lithe young women with paunchy older men.

I jostled for parking space, unloaded my hamper and towel from the trunk and walked barefoot across the hot sand and found a space to sit beside a mother reading a book and a man trying to check out the beauties while pretending to read a newspaper.

I laid my discreetly monogrammed towel on the sand and enjoyed the sun’s heat as the chant of children laughing, surfers yelling and teenagers chatting rang paramount amid the soothing waves and screeching of tyres from traffic on the nearby road.

After rubbing sunscreen into my joints, I took off my shirt and put on my sunglasses while I read  _ The Devil Wears Prada _ and ate often from the picnic hamper; sealed containers of freshly cut bananas, apples, strawberries, oranges, mandarins, mangos and peaches, to name a few. There was a litre of spring water I pulled on when the sun burned brighter and when I had reapplied my sun screen for the third time I glanced around, mid-afternoon, and I saw why everyone enjoyed California’s beaches.

I returned to the hotel later that afternoon, but only to shower and change for the dinner reservation I had made. I was checking my tan in the mirror above the bathroom sink when my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s Tyler,” came the reply.

“This is unexpected,” I said, walking into the bedroom and taking a seat on the chaise lounge at the foot of the bed. “I wasn’t aware you were interested in me last night.”

“I was interested in you,” he replied. “But not that dickhead you went home with. Since when do you take guys home after knowing them for only a few hours?”

I stifled a sigh.

“Dan, if you’re looking for a good time, I’m the best you could ever find. I’ve loads of money, scores of hot men and more experience than anyone I know. You want good loving? I’ve got it right here.”

I tried to ignore the ache in my stomach, remembering the visual of Tyler removing his briefs to reveal his boner, or spread out on his bed for all the world to see.

“You’re a sexual fiend, Tyler. You’re out for a good time - I want it for a long time.”

I hung up and tried not to feel the wave of hypocrisy and shame that enveloped me. I stood and tied my trench coat across my body, heading for the elevator.

I returned from the Japanese sushi restaurant in unusually high spirits. I tipped the valet who parked my Porsche and rode the private elevator, enjoying how friendly the staff had been and how delicious the food was. It was a bit alienating, dining alone; but I had been doing it for years.

I relaxed in the living room, watching Christiane Amanpour debate with a politician on her talk show while I set up my laptop and searched for properties available to view.

I was not yet certain whether I wanted to live here or not, but one thing was for sure: the architecture was brand-new and the views spectacular.

I woke up with a sudden jolt, realising I had fallen asleep on the couch. Sunlight streamed in through the windows and the curtains fluttered in the breeze from the door to the balcony being left open.

I called down for breakfast and drycleaning from room service before heading into the shower to wash and change into a navy blue shirt, lightweight tan chinos and spritzing a dab of cologne on my wrists.

After breakfast, I rode the elevator down to the lobby and picked up my Porsche, driving into the heart of the city where I had secured an appointment with one of California’s leading real estate companies, Sothebys.

“Good morning, Mr. Spencer,” smiled the receptionist, all efficiency and smiles. “Ms. Britt is ready to see you. Go on through.”

I declined the offer of complimentary beverages and entered a large, well decorated office where a tall, thin and tanned woman with locks of luxuriant blonde hair and a tight fitting pinstripe suit rose to greet me.

“Mr. Spencer,” she smiled, extending a hand to shake mine. “It’s good to meet you. Please, take a seat. Has Julia offered you any refreshments?”

“Yes, yes,” I deferred, seating myself opposite her cavernous desk. The room was sparse and minimal, but tastefully decorated; and the air conditioning was a blessing from the oppressive heat outside. “Did you receive my property portfolio?”

“I did,” she smiled, nodding as she glanced towards a binder she picked up to peruse. “I must say, it’s very comprehensive. You have a lot of experience, for someone so young, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “However, it’s not an investment property I’m interested in today. I’d like to look at properties I might live in one day.”

“Very well,” her smile grew broader. “I’ll need some specifics to narrow our search before we begin. Price range?”

After the meeting, I zoomed uptown in my Porsche to meet the realtor, Ms. Britt, at one of the properties I had deemed interesting enough to view in person. I drove through a gated community, past several multimillion-dollar properties with three-storied views and landscaped gardens, but when I approached a side street which led to a checkpoint, I was buzzed through a set of ornate gates which led to the real beauty.

I left the residential area behind as the Porsche and I were deluged by nature: the driveway was surrounded by firm trees and lush greenery that isolated itself from the hustle and bustle of LA. The drive up the path took but a minute, then I saw the interlocking path stop in front of a Mediterranean-style house, draped in vines and surrounded by greenery. Edie emerged from the air-conditioned comfort of her Mercedes-Benz and removed her rose-tinted Gucci eyewear.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” her voice rang throughout the birdsong and trees gentling in the breeze.

My first thought was that it  _ was _ very enticing. Edie led me through the gardens first, explaining first the size of the property and how isolated it was, protecting the homeowner from such distractions as commercial activity or passersby interference. It reminded me of home.

She led me through the house, decorated with no expense spared: on the first floor, a foyer had two staircases leading to the second storey, with doors to bathrooms under each; an open-plan kitchen with an informal and formal dining room; a living room with a fireplace and a separate library. On the second floor, the master bedroom with a walk-in closet and an ensuite that almost dwarfed the bedroom; a second bedroom with an adjacent ensuite and a third bedroom that could act as staff quarters. There was also a rec room fitted like a cinema; a gargantuan pool overlooking the horizon, a large treehouse amid a maze of manicured hedges and a koi pond, with a two-car garage, Edie added as an afterthought.

It was one of the most sought-after properties on the market, she said, with its value pertaining to the isolation it brought and the history in its moldings and fittings, she said.

I had no interest in being known for owning such a historic property. Public recognition was not something I craved; ironic given that I was considering moving to a city built on fame and fortune, with movie stars and music artists abound.

“I’d like to look at the other property you suggested,” I smiled, disarming Edie, who was no doubt looking forward to the five million dollars in commission she’d receive upon selling this villa.

The property we visited next was on a much lesser spread of land, but compared with most homes in LA, it reigned paramount. The private driveway led to a white columned entrance with a five-car garage alongside it, and a tour inside showed an expanse of marble flooring, recessed antiques and exquisite furnishings. It was decadent and opulent and full of splendour; but with seven bedrooms and ten bathrooms, occupancy was larger than I needed it to be. The outdoors led to a stunning vista across LA, with an azure infinity pool, a small gazebo for entertaining and a spread of perfectly manicured grass for outdoor activities. Edie’s commission had shrunk to six figures, but she was no less enthusiastic to make a sale.

“You could always theme the bedrooms by colours,” suggested Edie, in response to my comment that I was doubtful to ever hold a full host of guests. “May I make a suggestion?”

I turned to her and she tried to fixate on a single issue.

“Several of my clients, who are privately wealthy and in your age range, tend to tackle the California vibe by purchasing a large home and having their friends live with them. It’s a more comfortable arrangement.”

I didn’t know anybody that I wanted to live with, here or abroad. Many of the celebrities who made it to Hollywood brought along an entourage of friends to live rent-free, while they partied and walked the red carpet of fame.

“It’s a spectacular property, Edie. Thank you for the tour today.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Spencer. Please keep in touch if any of our other properties catch your eye.”


	5. Thrills

I was driving back to the hotel when my cell phone rang and I pulled over to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Daniel. It’s Steve.”

“Steve, hi,” I gushed. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“How’re you finding LA?”

“It’s quite spectacular, really. There’s a lot to see and do, thanks to your tour last week, thank you.”

“No problem. I’m heading home from work right now, but would you like to meet up for a coffee sometime this week?”

My heart leaped. He wanted to see me!

“Sure, that sounds nice,” I replied. “I have a fairly open schedule if you have a preferred time.”

“How about Tuesday at noon?”

“That fits fine with me. See you then, Steve.”

The next day, a Monday, I decided to drive down to Rodeo Drive and pick out a new outfit to wear for meeting Steve. I found a parking space in between a gleaming black Mercedes and a lime-green Lamborghini, and chose Calvin Klein for clothing.

The atmosphere was hushed; reverent, almost. The salesmen rushed up the moment he saw me and asked if I needed help with anything, but I politely declined and began browsing the shelves.

I picked out fitted shirts in white, black, navy blue; one pair of navy blue jeans that fitted tightly and a darker pair that were more comfortable. I moved to the underwear section, where racks of boxer briefs in small sizes were displayed.

I picked out two pairs in black and white and was deciding which to try on when a voice said, “Hard decision, isn’t it?”

I turned and saw a man dressed in a finely tailored suit with polished loafers and a discreet Rolex at his wrist. The only colour came from his navy blue silk tie.

“I figure the only people who’ll see them will take them off before they notice the colour,” I said, blushing as I realised how direct my comment was. “I’m sorry, I - “

“It’s fine,” he smiled, offering a hand in response. “Ed.”

“Daniel,” I replied, glancing up at his face. He had light brown hair and his eyes wore visible crow’s feet, but he didn’t look a day over thirty-five.

“Mr Burns!” gushed the manager, attended by two salesmen. “What a surprise to see you today - “

“Nice to meet you, Ed,” I said, turning on my heel to process my purchases at the counter.

When I returned to the hotel, I sat on the chaise longue at the foot of my bed, surrounded by carrier bags and laying each item on my bed for my perusal.

I sent them all down for dry cleaning and ordered dinner from the room service menu, showering to change and emerging in a white toweling robe to find a meal of lobster thermidor set out on the dining table, replete with silver cutlery and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the bureau.

I alternated between reading and watching TV while I ate, and when I had finished and wiped the napkin across my lips I retired to the bedroom where I slept, comfortably content.

I woke early the next morning, with only the reddish dawn of the sunrise to illuminate the suite. After drinking a ton of black coffee to wake up and watching a few early morning news shows, I showered and changed into my outfit for the day - a cashmere ribbed polo neck with navy blue jeans and stout loafers. I massaged lotion into my face and hands, wanting to look perfect for this afternoon.

I set the GPS on my Porsche and drove into town, parking in front of the cafe. It was quite crowded, but popular for the arty, eccentric hipsters; when I entered, I saw Steve sitting alone at a table, nursing a cup of hot chocolate as he glanced around nervously.

I walked up to him and smiled when he glanced at me. “Steve. Good to see you.”

“You too, Daniel,” he offered the seat opposite him and I sat, ordering a mochachino from the waitress who disappeared as quickly as she had appeared.

I drank him in with my eyes, taking in the short-sleeved, brown shirt that clung to his biceps. When he stood to fetch a glass of water from the counter for him and I, I noticed how well fitted his jeans were and remembered that shocking visual of him in nothing but a backless apron.

“So, how’s work been?” I asked him.

“Not bad,” he added as an afterthought, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. The moist dab on his lips made me want to lick it. “I’m booked to do another of Tyler’s digs next week.”

“Oh?” I asked, surprised.

Steve rolled his eyes in a most sarcastic fashion. “He’s booked him and his friends on a private jet around the world. He’s going clubbing in Ibiza, Mykonos…”

“He wants you going with him?”

“He’s hosting a leaving party at his house this weekend,” he said. “I’m his bartender for the night.”

“Ah. I see.”

“How about you? What are you planning to do once you settle down?” he asked.

“I’m not exactly sure,” I met Steve’s chocolate-brown eyes and almost melted. “I haven’t really spread my wings. I’m sure the last thing I would do is get on a plane like Tyler and have sex with strangers from every continent. It sounds melancholic to say, but I can’t quite find what I’m looking for.”

“Well,” Steve shrugged his shoulders. “Who’s to say you won’t find it here?”

His strength warmed me; it really did. Since coming to LA, despite having money to spend, I had no real connections; no tangible links to the society I was attempting to embed myself within. And sharing none of the usual proclivities of the West Coast - a fondness for partying, a taste for drunken sex, an obsession with flashing cash and spending to make it - made it that much harder for me to ingratiate with a community that didn’t fit my usual lifestyle.

“Give it a while. A change might be refreshing. It might point you in the right path in the end.”

“You know, Steve…” I glanced down at the table, willing myself to take his hand. “I think you’re absolutely right.”

Perhaps it was from nerves or the fact that I had drunk a litre of black coffee, but I felt a pinch in my bladder and rose to excuse myself from the table, asking him if he could point me in the direction of the bathroom.

“Over there, to your left,” he rose from the table to show me, but when I insisted he remain seated, he replied, “Ah, I’ve got to hit the head, too.”

We walked in silence, passing the busy waiters balancing trays and groups of chattering civilians seated opposite on tables or ensconced in booths, and when we reached the bathroom I held the door open for him so he could enter first.

I noticed both of the cubicles were occupied and moved to the urinal, where Steve stood with his legs spread and staring down into the trough. I joined beside him, my heart beating frantically, as my elbow brushed against his and I muttered a quick “sorry” before unzipping my fly and trying to concentrate.

It was damn near impossible. Having him stand beside me, hearing his breathing and seeing his stream of urine hit the stainless steel was all too much. I hardened in my hand and I dared not move nor breathe, aware that if I so much as glanced to my right I could see Steve’s dick, bare for all to see.

I made an awkward cough and zipped myself back up, aware that he knew I hadn’t spilled so much as a drop and turned to wash my hands at the sink. When I exited the bathroom, I returned to the table, my hands shaking and body quivering. I was so overcome with shock I could barely function.

When Steve sat down I didn’t say a word. I glanced at his nonchalant expression, but I couldn’t be sure through my haze of anxiety and stood, barely able to form a satisfactory “thank you” and rushing out of the cafe on swift wings.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the hotel’s massage parlor, having booked a three-hour long massage to ease out my frustration and stress over how embarrassing a sudden departure I had made. In a fit, I had turned my cell phone off the moment I had left in my Porsche and now it lay charging at the foot of my bed, a silent symbol of the message I would receive: “WTF???”

The masseuse was a demure Asian woman who worked every kink in my back and made inaudible sighs when I tried to resist her strong kneading. By the time I had returned to my suite, I collapsed on the couch in front of the TV, my head on a pillow and my gaze fixed on a muted episode of  _ Entourage _ .

It was getting dark and a cold breeze blew in from the window, making me shiver as I remembered today’s abrupt outburst. I couldn’t let it go. I had to resolve it.

Steeling my determination, I headed into the bedroom, snatched my cell phone from the floor. My heart felt empty that there were no messages waiting for me, but I dialed Steve regardless and waited an infinite time, but what was only a few short seconds when I heard a voice and perked up, but it was only the voicemail and the ensuing BEEP to leave a message.

I tossed it to the carpet and slumped onto my bed, staring up at the latticed ceiling. I wish I could tell him how I felt. But it was against my nature to be so forward.

The phone vibrated all of a sudden and belted its familiar ringtone, and I leapt for it and answered it without a second thought. “Hello?”

“Hey, Dan. How’re you doing?”

The voice was familiar, but my mind went blank. It definitely wasn’t Steve.

“I’m good, thank you,” I replied, playing for time. “I’m just… watching TV.”

“Ah,” he laughed. “And how’s that big suite treating you? You never told me you were a rich boy.”

Scott! The movie agent.

“I’m not at all rich, I’m merely comfortable,” I tried to get him off the subject.

“Uh huh,” came his reply. “Listen, I’m heading out with a few friends for the night, but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind paying host to a late night visitor?”

And all the memories came flooding back, of his tall stature and large hands and the way the hair on my back stood up when he kissed me roughly and groaned like a bull.

He was not Steve; but he was a red-blooded, American male with good looks and a strong body and what I hoped was…

“Scott, I’m afraid I have guests over at the moment. I’ll have to get back to you.”

I hung up the phone, feeling emasculated for denying myself the desires I had a right to. If I went through with it… I would be picturing Steve, not Scott, and I hated myself for my screwed-up emotions and principled background.

I ran myself a bath and stripped naked, tentatively submerging my body into the piping hot water. It was soapy and foamy and scented, and the searing heat helped to wash my cares away, especially once the classical music played softly from the speakers installed in a recess above the door.

I must’ve dozed, for when I blinked awake I was bobbing gently in the water, bubbles covering the surface and my body keenly relaxed by the water. I was careful not to wet the tiles as I stepped out onto a bath mat, drying myself with fluffy towels and stepping into fluffy slippers after wrapping myself in a toweling robe and belting it tightly.

I stepped out onto the balcony and let the breeze wash over me and surrendered to the elements of the environment, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.

I returned inside and picked up my cell phone, dialing the number by memory with a heavy heart. As I sat down on the couch and heard the ringing tone, my heartbeat increased and I gripped the cushion close to my chest - 

“Steve speaking.”

“Steve, hi,” I managed. “It’s Daniel. I’m calling to apologise after my, well… sudden exit today.”

“You looked in a bit of a hurry,” came the flat reply. “Are you alright?”

I cleared my throat and tried to ignore the twinge in my stomach. “Steve, the reason I left was… I’m afraid I was unaccountably overcome with rather a lot of affection for you. I find you very interesting, and undoubtedly attractive… and I was having rather a hard time processing all of it at once, you see.”

The seconds of silence that followed were harder for me to live through than I knew.

“Daniel, don’t apologise. I’m not insulted.”

“Good. I certainly didn’t mean to embarrass you - “

“I thought you were dating Tyler, is all,” Steve replied.

“Tyler?” my confusion and shock surmounted all at once. “Why on earth would I be dating him, of all people?”

“Well, he certainly hasn’t been keeping it quiet,” replied Steve. “He’s made it sound as though he visits you very often.”

“I - “ I hesitated for a moment. “But that can’t be! Tyler doesn’t even know what hotel I’m staying at. I’ve only seen him once after the party we met, and his friends certainly kept me away from him. They probably assumed I was some sort of hanger-on…”

“So you’re not dating?” came the reply.

“Not at all! And certainly not having sex,” I added quickly. “This has been such a misunderstanding - “

A pause, and then, “I understand.”

Was that it? I breathed into the phone, waiting for him to say more, but there wasn’t.

“Daniel… I won’t lie to you. I liked you the moment I set eyes on you at Tyler’s party.”

My spirits soared, my hopes abound, my dreams grew wings and flew into the clouds…

“But after hearing Tyler mention how, well - to spare you the lies he told - I reserved my affections and decided to let them lie.”

“You can’t be serious!” I exclaimed, the hysteria creeping into my voice the way sunlight floods the entrance of a cave at dawn. “I - Steve - “

He let out a weary sigh and said, “I’m sorry, Daniel. I really am. I hope you find happiness, but I’m afraid that man can’t be me.”

I was vaguely aware of the cell phone slipping from my fingers onto the carpet, but the sudden shock of tears which sprang unbidden from my eyes caused me to press the ‘end call’ button and toss the device onto the coffee table.

I curled up in my robe and clutched my knees, burying my face in my lap and crying great heaving sobs that were only the preamble to the thick, throaty cries that filled the suite with an unholy preaching to the dastardly God above.


	6. British pounded

When I awoke, it was from the sunlight shining hot on my face from the reflection on the TV. I gathered my robe about me and coughed wildly, my throat hoarse. I wiped a clammy hand across my dry face and squinted at the sunlight which bared throughout the expansive suite.

The memory of last night came to me as I was crossing the dining room and I sat on a chair, gripping the wood and trying not to heave. Tears gathered in my eyes but no further, dripping down my cheeks and onto the fluffy frette robe.

I glanced out to the view of skyscrapers and hillside mansions of LA, wondering what I had come for if only to be heartbroken and slandered for no personal benefit.

There would be no confrontation, I told myself as I made it into the shower a half hour later and buffed my skin with soap and a loofah. I would reject all his calls, ignore him on the street, refrain from all injustices of attacking his character.

He was rich, well-connected and damnably handsome - my word against his would do nothing but solve my pride. I was above him - I was above it all.

I checked my reflection in the mirror and decided I looked particularly handsome, if not on the scale of Tyler and his friends, who looked like models out of a Dolce & Gabbana catalogue with angular cheekbones and heroin-thin physiques.

I took the private elevator down to the lobby and consulted the receptionist on duty across the onyx counter and said, “I’d like to settle my bill.”

“Will you be leaving us, Mr Spencer?” came the reply, all efficiency and smiles. “We’ll be sorry to see you go so soon. After all, you’re booked in for another week with us.”

“I have no problem with any cancellation charges applied to my account, just so long as they’re itemised on the final bill.” I said. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, so I’ll need a limousine arranged to take me to LAX.”

“I’ll have that arranged for you right away. Would you like us to send up breakfast when we deliver your wake up call? It’s complimentary, for your continued stay in our biggest suite.”

“Very well. Thank you, Jane,” I read the name tag. “You’ve been a great help.”

I took the Porsche out for a drive, passing by all the stores and boutiques and grocer’s that Steve had been kind enough to tour me through. His face haunted my memory and the day I saw him first, when I shook his hand and later on, almost saw him, bare for my eyes to see…

I braked and avoided a collision with the owner of a Ferrari who choked on his vulgarity and spewed forth half a hundred insults that could’ve been in any language but were indistinguishable to me. Fortunately, I veered into a different lane and drove up through the gated communities, gazing at mansions occupied by a family of four or six despite being able to house three times that number, and eventually ended up arriving at the dealership, cancelling my lease early, earning a fee in the process which I shrugged off with a doleful manner. My melancholy was setting in deep, and while I walked the pavement, no temptation of mannequins in Calvin Klein or fruit baskets in Dean & De Luca’s would set me right.

I drew my cell phone out of my pocket and read the caller display with hope, but oddly piqued with curiosity when I saw Scott’s name. “Hello?”

“Dan! I feel like it’s taking forever to pin you down. How about dinner with me tonight?”

I didn’t want to mention my leaving. I felt it would create an atmosphere of urgency. The truth was, I did find Scott attractive… and whatever his designs on my person, I felt in control of whatever he wanted to pursue.

“That sounds great. I’ll see you there, Scott.”

When the limousine dropped me off at the restaurant, I was awash in a crowd of well-dressed patrons; diamonds dripping from their earlobes or cufflinks shining in platinum or silver amid a well-pressed suit and shoes. I was more modest in taste, but still felt the hammering of my heart as I ascended the steps and entered, consulting the maitre’d for the reservation.

“This way, Mr Spencer,” she smiled, showing me to a table set with fine white linens, silver cutlery and a yellow rose in a glass vase. But it wasn’t the decoration I noticed.

Scott stood on my arrival, all smiles with his white teeth and tanned deeply from the sun. His blonde hair was gelled back with industry strength adhesive and his muscled body was outlined against the cotton of his shirt and the tight fit of his jeans.

I felt myself getting aroused, reddening; then calmed my expression and posture, shaking his hand with a polite smile and taking the seat the waiter held out for me.

“Just water for me, thank you,” I said, refusing the offer of wine matched with the meal.

“How about champagne?” asked Scott, delivering a quick order to the waiter. “What’ll you try?”

He doesn’t take no for an answer, I thought. “Whatever you think is best.”

Scott smirked and eyed me like I was the delicacy he thought best, then rattled off a list of instructions I didn’t bother to follow and cast a glance around the crowded room. Classical music tinkled on the ivories while waiters in full livery served mouth-watering dishes to groups in clouds of cologne and perfume and laughter.

I picked something from the menu at random and handed mine to the waiter while another approached our table to pour water for us from a crystal jug.

“Thank you,” I said, as he departed. I took a sip and noticed Scott sitting at ease, his eyes not leaving mine, his smirk broadening as he noticed me redden.

“Am I making you nervous?” he grinned.

“Just a little,” I replied coolly. “How was work?”

He shrugged his shoulders as though it was no big deal. “Hustling big clients. Handling their personal lives. What else is new?”

I smiled coyly in return. “You must enjoy it, though. The challenge of balancing your own life with theirs.”

His smile broadened. “You’re wondering if I’m going to leave on a moment’s notice?”

“I didn’t mean to bring up last time - “

“Why not?” he asked, as the waiter cut between us to pour champagne. “I’d like to expand on that, if I could.”

“Let’s hope that nothing comes between us, then.” I smiled coyly.

We chatted lightly over the courses, pausing to take a sip of champagne from a supply that never seemed to expire. When we had finished dessert, I was quite tipsy.

“Hold onto me,” he said, as I gripped his arm, though my walk wasn’t at all jaunty.

I clasped his cotton shirt and gazed up at the night sky as we exited, and he helped me into the taxi. I looked up at him while he stood on the pavement.

“I warn you,” he said. “If you let me in, I might not get out.”

I beamed and blushed deeply.

The taxi dropped us off at the hotel and we made our way across the marbled lobby. I clutched at his arm and stared adoringly at his face, always strewn in a sly grin. When we made it into the elevator he pressed his body against mine and kissed my neck, with such force and tenderness I felt my body wither and held his hard, strong body closer to mine.

The doors slid open and I led him through, stopping only briefly to consume his mouth with mine, feeling his hands stroke my skin through my shirt, resting briefly on the flat of my butt before we moved through the dining room to the bedroom.

I led him past the bed and into the bathroom, where for my own reasons I wanted us both to be clean but also, to experience a more intimate side of lovemaking.

Smirking, he ran his hand across my jawline and I closed my eyes, for one brief moment picturing Steve, then opening them suddenly. Where Steve was soft and smooth and gentle, Scott was raw and hard and fierce. I ran my hand along his collar and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, eyes widening as he displayed a chest thick with muscle. I ran a hand over the bicep he flexed mockingly and smiled.

He smirked and ran his eye over me, almost reverently as he unbuttoned my shirt and let it part, running a hand over the smoothness of my flat stomach, fingers winding around my nipples and causing me to gasp in pleasure. He grinned in satisfaction and tugged at my belt, letting my jeans fall to my knees. He took a sharp inhale of breath when he saw me standing nude but for the white boxer briefs I wore, and reached out for my hips to draw me closer, enveloping me in a rough kiss. His hand ran down my back to my bottom, a growl low in his throat as he caressed it.

I reached for his belt and unbuckled it so that it hung loose against his jeans, where he watched me with a superior look, his grin devious as my fingers brushed against the trail of hair below his belly button. I unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, letting them slide to the floor and trying not to gasp, for the sight of his huge dick jutting insistently against his underwear made me want to cry out in pleasure.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, as though I was a perverse spectator. I looked at him and he grinned; motioning down and I reached for the waistband of his boxer briefs, my hand settling on the massive bulge within and sighed so deeply I wondered briefly if in the silence that followed I had become imprisoned in some sort of alternate reality, where if I stayed still long enough this dream would stay still for all time.

He took the initiative and pulled his underwear down, letting his big dick jut out in all its glory for me to see. He stepped out of his underwear, eyebrow arched over my reluctance and pulled my underwear to my knees. When I stepped out of them, his eyes searched my body hungrily and did not find wanting.

His body pressed against mine and we kissed, hungry mouths and tongues finding one another as his hands sculpted my body and mine shook as they gripped his hard biceps, tight pecs and strong back muscles. He was so strong, I wondered what he would do with me.

He led me into the shower and turned on the shower, so that a stream of jets pounded our bodies while he attacked my mouth with his, biting and licking my neck while his hands cradled my bottom, soft where his mouth was insistent and of fury.

Subsumed by showers and heat in both ways, I placed my hands on his chest and he backed into the tiled wall and I kissed him on his lips only as a precursor to the descent I made down to his chin, then his neck, then his pecs. It was when I was approaching his navel that he groaned out loud and then when he placed his hands on my head, pushing me down, I knew within that millisecond I was ready.

His groan of pleasure when he thrust into my mouth stirred me so keenly I thought I would explode. As he thrust his hips and his dick into my throat, he kept my neck at a keen pace while he groaned and filled my mouth, my tongue and lips barely exploring the length of him while he explored my throat, the tight crevice I provided him more than enough for precum to ooze from my lips to be lost amid the surging torrent of jets on all sides to pour on us.

“Ah,” he cried, when his dick clogged my throat and hot cum filled it throughout.

The sweet, sticky sensation I felt when he withdrew his dick from my throat and the wet embrace of my mouth was just as pleasurable as when he entered it, and when I shot out a hand to the glass pane to steady my hormones, he lifted me up without a stretch and studied my face, his grin beyond comprehension. “You are a delicious boy to feast on, I can tell you that.”

Despite myself I smirked and bit my lip, trying to regain my composure but breaking out in a bright smile, my fervour too high a pitch to control. I restrained myself from touching him, at least; but he drew me close and whispered, “Don’t for a second think I’m done with you yet.”

I awoke to the sound of the phone ringing and the specks of dawn which filtered in through the gaps in the curtain. I glanced over at Scott, the hard muscles in his back taut as his body heaved up and down while he breathed. I reached for the phone, feeling uncommon to answer it while in the nude. “Yes?”

“Your wake-up call for seven, sir. Shall I send up breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you. Please make sure the limousine is ready to leave at nine.”

I ventured into the shower and turned the jets on full blast, washing the sweat and stickiness of last night with fresh shampoo and scented soaps, while the ache in my loins yearned for more. I had never felt more at peace as I had last night…

“Hey,” Scott grinned, all tanned and white teeth and muscular girth blocking my way all at once. He reached for the soap I had just put down and began washing it over his perfectly taut chest. I couldn’t help but stare.

His hands moved down to his crotch and I watched as he washed in between his legs, his huge dick growing erect while he massaged it amid the soapy suds.

“You never stop, do you?” I grinned, kissing him back as I tried to move past him, but he held me against the glass wall, the hugeness of him stabbing my leg with such force I almost cried out. His masculine, well-lined and smirking face was just as much a glory to look at as the scope of pecs and abs below and the rigidity of his legs and between them.

“Why are you up so early?” he asked, crinkling his brow as he gazed at me with fierce intent.

“I should ask you the same,” I smiled coyly, briefly glancing down at his dick which would surely tear me in two. “I’m leaving on a plane in a few hours.”

“Oh? Where are you headed?” he asked nonchalantly, smoothing his hair with shampoo and dipping his head back to massage it into his scalp.

“Home,” I said, catching a glance through the misted glass to my reflection. I was only a blurry figure, but Scott took up much of the room, his build much more noticeable than mine. Both nude, both inhabited by hormones and lust. So different from my own, regular life… where I had no such luxury to be owned by hedonistic grandeur.

“Don’t bother with that,” grinned Scott, when I emerged from the shower only to envelop myself in a towelling robe. “Likely I’ll be tearing it off you again.”

“I don’t want the servants to see me nude,” I said, tying the knot fiercely. This loss was hard to prevent feeling and even more so, when I felt guilty for losing Steve.

I walked across the soft carpet, past the bedroom where my suitcases were packed and my dry cleaning hung up. I ate quietly at the dinner table, enjoying the faint breeze from the open balcony windows, when Scott strode into sight, his hair looking no less attractive despite the lack of gel, and his muscular body wrapped in a white towel.

He looked fantastic, gorgeous, with the sex clinging to him and his sated smirk that the shower’s powerful jets could not disperse of.

“Don’t pretend you’re not thinking what I’m thinking,” Scott grinned, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. He sat down opposite me and tore heartily into a plate of bacon and eggs, crunching loudly while he smirked at me. “You want me.”

“I do,” I smiled, nodding as I took a sip of water. “But I have a long flight ahead of me.”

“All the more reason to make it more enjoyable,” he grinned. “I’ll give you something to remember me by.”

I focused on my breakfast, but when I next glanced up he was still smirking, fork and knife poised over his breakfast while he appraised my reluctance.

“I’ve stayed in LA not longer than a fortnight, and I shall be sorry to leave. You were a very enjoyable companion in bed, and much more,” I added.

“What about Tyler?” he asked, his tone almost brittle, but his eyes still teasing.

My mood instantly soured. “What about him, indeed?”

“Did you sleep with him?” the question was posed casually, but make no mistake Scott was watching my every expression. Clearly, my silence bothered him and he allowed for an expression of open inquiry.

“Why everyone seems to be disillusioned is beyond me…” I shook my head, setting down my cutlery. “I have not slept with Tyler. In fact, I haven’t slept with anyone besides you.”

“Really?” his surprise was genuine, then his smirk deepened. “I’m a lucky man.”

“Tyler seems to be under the misapprehension that I’m interested in him…” my vision flared back to Steve, and what could’ve been, and my heart inflamed in fury. “I won’t deny he’s attractive. But what remains is a superficial shell of a man. I have no interest in swapping bedclothes with the man.”

“Glad to hear it,” he added.

“Besides,” I smiled, taking a sip of water to hide the blush creeping up my neck and face. “I rather enjoyed being trapped under your body, hard and hot and fierce. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

His grin threatened to devour me whole as it broadened into a smirk.

“When do you think you’ll come back to LA?” he asked offhandedly.

I shrugged my shoulders, a demure gesture from a man who had his heart broken but not his spirit. I wiped my mouth with the napkin and stood from the table. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll see.”


	7. Home

I sat in the back of the limousine, my suitcases in the trunk and my heart heavy, to have given leave to great feelings I had amassed since coming here. As I glanced out of the tinted windows, watching the world go by in a blur of commercial activity on foot and in traffic, up high in buildings and from afar in picturesque mansions, I wondered if I could ever find a home, without fear of heartbreak or abandon.

Some time later, the limousine pulled into the concorde of the airport, granted through to the private hangar which housed among many others jets of sizes great and small.

My own, a Gulfstream which dwarfed very many in size but not in splendour, greeted me as I exited the Town Car with two pilots and a steward for my journey.

“Good morning, sir,” they greeted, and I replied, “Thank you for organising the flight on short notice.”

“It’s no problem, sir,” replied the pilot, as the steward collected my suitcases and stored them onboard. “Are you ready to leave?”

I climbed aboard and looked around the interior of the plane, decorated in rich marble with cream leather seats and a sleek TV set into the wall, below which lay a spread of newspapers and glossy magazines.

“Can I offer you anything for the mid flight meal, sir?” asked the steward.

“No, thank you, James,” I said, settling into a seat and buckling up. I stared out of the window. “How long will it take to arrive in London?”

“Seven hours, sir.”

“Please wake me before we arrive.”

The chauffeured Mercedes-Benz met me at the airfield, taking me through the wet, rainy streets of London. Storefronts with dripping porticoes and harried travellers with umbrellas or clutching newspapers over their heads ran to and fro.

Before long, the commercial district was a distant memory, as the car drove into the countryside, where a wooded glade met our approach and an expanse of freshly manicured lawn stretched as far as the eye could see, dripping with dew.

The car continued down the path for more than a few minutes, interspersed here and there with oak trees that grew tall and rich, past the scenery of blossoming gardens and into sight of a truly grand estate: tall spires amidst gargoyle arches and large, stained windows.

The car stopped in front of the entrance and the chauffeur rushed round to open my door, offering his umbrella as I exited and walked forward to meet the butler, shielded from the insistent pounding of the rain.

“Good evening, sir,” the butler’s voice was deep and his suit fitted well. “Dinner will be served in an hour, if you’d like to change?”

“Very much,” I admitted, glancing about the moor. It retained its distant, repressive feel.

I gave my coat and umbrella to Carson, the butler, while I walked across the red carpet and ascended the grand staircase to the first floor.

The hallway was austere but by no means less decorous: a vase of sunflowers looked out onto the fields, soaked by rain; a thick red carpet ran the length; a tapestry of a crowned lion, gold on red. I placed my hand on the doorknob and twisted it open; tentative as I entered my bedroom.

It was immaculate, as I had always known it to be: a patterned coverlet over a queen-sized bed; a bureau with a yellow rose in a glass vase; a small bookcase adjacent to a cushioned chair overlooking a window to the gardens outside. I walked into the bathroom adjacent, fitted simply with a standing shower and a bar of soap in the basin, beside a small vase of flowers. I emerged to find one of the servants, Thomas, carrying the suitcases in.

“Good evening, sir,” Thomas stood tall and erect, a starched white shirt underneath his black suit and his black hair slicked back with gel. “I’m here to dress you for dinner.”

“Well, I’ll have to shower from the flight, so you might be waiting a while,” I said, unnerved by his nonchalance. It had been so long since tradition demanded I not lift a finger.

I accepted the towel he passed to me and noticed the gleam in his eyes and the smirk on his face. I felt the faint stirrings of lust inside me, but when Thomas took a step towards me I held my breath; for all he did was brush lint from my shoulder.

“Don’t worry, sir,” he smiled, watching my perspiring expression. “I’ll be here when you return.”

I walked into the bathroom, hanging the towel on a rail and stripped myself bare of clothing, piling it into the wicker hamper nearby. I twisted the dial on the shower and stepped in, luxuriating in the hot stream of water. I washed my body with the bar of soap provided, remembering the frugal nature of this austere estate.

I exited amid a cloud of steam and patted my face with the towel before wrapping it around my waist and padding into the bedroom. My suitcases had been unpacked and several outfits lay on the bed of my choosing. Thomas stood nearby, a wry smile on his face that could mean anything and walked up to me as I froze in place.

“You’ve been away from home too long, sir,” he smirked, running his hands over my chest and down my sides to where they rested on the towel. He pulled the towel free and I gasped as it dropped to my feet. “Well. You’re happy to see me, aren’t you?”

Thomas dressed me from head to toe, all efficiency and taunting smirk while his hands roved my body and made me go red with heat.

“Don’t get too hot during dinner,” he warned, his sly smirk inches from my mouth. “I want to enjoy every inch of you when you return.”

I hurried out of the room, heading down the staircase and across the ornate hallway to the dining room. It was set resplendently, with a family portrait overlooking the room and a table set with fine linens, silver cutlery and crystal glasses. I seated myself at the head of the table, smoothed my napkin over my lap and looked outside the window at the pouring rain, while Carson poured me water and a footman served my dinner in front of me.

It had been so long since I had returned home, I pondered, while watching the dark, rainy moor beyond. The faint tune of classical music from a piano drifted in through the door ajar to the drawing room, and I relaxed in this grand home, formal and dignified, without a shred of the indecency displayed back in the United States.

“Thank you, Carson,” I said, rising from my seat when I had finished dessert and the wine was half-full. “The dinner was excellent.”

I departed for the grand staircase, once again comforted by the sight of antique furniture, majestic chandeliers, ornate depictions on the ceilings and elegant vases of flowers at every interval. Carson interrupted me just as I was ascending.

“Will you need anything before retiring, sir?”

I hesitated a moment, then, “I’d like breakfast early, seven-thirty or so. I’ll be touring the countryside on one of the horses.”

“Very good, sir.”

I rose the stairs to the first floor, walking down the hallway and reaching my bedroom. I opened the door and found one of the maids laying a tray of coffee, tea and hot chocolate beside a bookmarked  _ Game of Thrones _ novel.

“Thank you, Alice, “ I dismissed her, to which she bowed her head and bid me a good night.

I drank most of the hot chocolate while reading the novel, while the blanket of sky stretched beyond the wet moor, no longer raining but the grass still damp. Stars sparkled in the ink above and a crescent moon shone down on all below.

When I was fed up with waiting, I slammed the book closed, tossed it onto the couch and turned out the light. I undressed and tossed my clothes onto the carpet while pulling back the covers and getting into bed. The hint of moonlight streaming in from the curtains wasn’t enough to soothe me. Nor was the perfect meal, familiar surroundings and outstanding splendour of my family home. I suddenly felt very, very alone.

Clutching the sheets close and closing my eyes on the soft pillow, I drifted off to sleep but not before something warm and solid nudged my back. The hairs on my back stood up as I heard and felt the sheets lift and a hand wrap around my bare waist. I felt his breath on my neck and his lips touch my neck and his erection which pressed against the cotton of my briefs. I relaxed and closed my eyes, breathing easier.


	8. Gasping for breath

When I awoke, the curtains had already been opened to allow sunlight to stream into my bedroom. Without a doubt, I knew the visitor to my bed was gone, but I still felt lonely to see that I was alone. I pushed back the sheets to rise from the bed, headed into the bathroom to shower, emerging to find Thomas at the foot of the bed, laying out an equestrian outfit with a blazer and tight breeches with brown boots.

His face was a mask besides the twinkle in his eyes as his hands moved up and down my bare body, dressing me for the day.

“Thank you, Thomas,” I said, leaving before he could say anything further.

I descended the staircase and entered the dining room, where I ate bacon and sausages, with strong black coffee to wash it down. I finished by rising from the chair and wiping my lips with the napkin, telling Carson to thank the chef and heading out into the hallway, through the foyer and out into the early morning expanse.

The sun shone strongly, breaking the dapple of dewdrops on the fresh grass, and everywhere I looked I could see Eden: pebbled paths that wound around the estate; mighty oak trees alongside fields of unexplored gardens in riotous, colorful bloom.

The stable boy waiting outside held the reins of the chestnut colt, a thoroughbred horse saddled with leather and a dour look in its eyes. It was one of the horses owned by the family for light riding.

I accepted the reins from the stable boy, swung myself up into the saddle while gripping the stirrups with my boots and patted the horse affectionately.

“Let’s go,” said I, maneuvering the horse down the path, while the servants watched.

It was a small trek down the path and passed the well-kept, manicured lawns and gardens of the estate to where the woodland began. The track turned coarser with leaves and dirt strewn about the rudimentary path, and the canopy of trees hanging overhead filtered out the better part of the sun, allowing for filters of light to illuminate above.

Soon enough, the track diverted into a crossways which led in many directions, and the only sounds to be heard were birds solitary in nests or flying overhead; the horse pounding its hooves upon the hard ground; or my breathing, light and shallow.

The brook cut through the jungle like a streaming scythe; dappled blue like the cloudless sky above with autumn leaves floating gently by. It was scenic; picturesque.

I dismounted and fed the horse an apple, my boots crunching on the leaves with the similar sound to the horse’s greedy bites, and I settled beneath the canopy of a thick oak tree, feeling the dirt crunch beneath as I retrieved a book and glanced once at the thick, steady river before engrossing myself in  _ Game of Thrones _ .

The sounds of the forest surrounded me. The insects chirping, the horse pawing the ground, the steady stream of the water breaking and falling. It was very soothing.

When the afternoon came, I had spent several hours reading alone, drinking occasionally from the thermos and eating a packed lunch of sliced fruits in a sealed container. I brushed the leaves off as I stood and patted the horse as I mounted, motioning with the reins to turn around and set off back home to the estate.

The breeze was gentle as the horse continued on a trot through the grove and into the bright expanse of land beyond. The estate stood in all its glory on acres of manicured land, interspersed with elder trees and secluded spots of greenery and gardens. Its spires shot proudly into the air, amid a constellation of gilded windows porticos. The pebbled path wound back in front of the estate, where a stable boy helped me dismount and took the reins for me, leading the colt back to the stables.

“Did you enjoy your ride, sir?” asked Carson, the butler. He was ever present at any given minute.

“Very much,” I replied, ignoring his askance glances to my mud-splattered breeches or leaves in my hair. “I’ll go upstairs and change for lunch.”

“Very good, sir. Lunch will be served in the gazebo.”

When I reached my bedroom, I opened the door to find several outfits laid out on my bed. I stripped off my dirty clothing, tossed it into the hamper and showered before changing into one of the outfits at random and descending down the grand staircase.

I walked outside and onto the pebbled path, taking a different route to where the path wound inside a garden, walled on all sides by tall, manicured hedges and filled throughout with flowerbeds in riotous colour. The gazebo was situated in the centre, built with white columns and a set of steps which lead up to a table set with a white cloth, a small glass vase with a single yellow rose and the complement of silver cutlery, crystal glasses and a single linen napkin.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Carson, pouring from a jug filled with iced lemon water as I took my seat and laid the napkin across my lap.

Carson took his leave while I finished my lunch, enjoying the scent of the flowers in bloom and the sound of the trees and gardens blowing gently in the breeze.

I took a glance around the gardens before abandoning my empty place and left my napkin on the table, walking down the steps and thanking Carson for the meal when I passed him, walking across the grounds to where I was struck again with the sense of epic splendour and grandeur of the estate. I returned inside for a tour.

The ballroom was grand, with a marbled dance floor surrounded by four-seater tables laid with white linen and chandeliers hung from the ceiling at every interval.

The conservatory was on the east side of the estate, with flowers in full bloom surrounding a sitting area with views to the outdoors beyond.

The dining room had been cleared of breakfast, the long glass table bare but for a vase of yellow roses as the centerpiece and unlit candles set on the bureau.

The drawing room was laid with cream draperies and carpet, with a set of chairs and a chaise longue facing the fireplace.

The long gallery led to the south wing of the estate, lined with chaise longues and hanging portraits, gilded candelabras and lattice work leading up the walls to the ceiling.

The library was filled with tall, gilded shelves of tomes with a spiral staircase reaching up to a balcony on the second storey with views of the grounds.

Having finished the tour, I walked along the long gallery, glancing outside at the grounds and enraptured by the view. My life began here and I was raised in all the practices of formality and protocol of etiquette from which the heraldry of my family name was derived.

When I returned to the estate, I took a nap in my bedroom, but not before I was woken by a soft knock on my door. I roused and answered the door blearily.

“You asked me to wake you, sir,” smiled Thomas, the valet. He looked especially dapper with his dark hair slicked back and wore white-tie coattails. “Dinner will be served in an hour.”

I showered and dressed as formally as I had in a long while. Thomas glanced at me with a sly smile after buttoning the last fitting and fixture on my outfit and raised an eyebrow at my worried expression.

“It’s nothing,” I took a deep breath, glancing out the window at the darkened moor. “My mother would see me married off.”

“You’d stay a bachelor for your life?” asked Thomas.

“Not at all,” I replied. “I just… don’t know if I’ll like any of these men. I don’t know at all.”

“Well,” he replied with a smirk. “They’re all rich, titled landowners… in that you can’t be worried about little else than their character.”

“Well that makes it easier, does it?” I petitioned, glancing at Thomas’ face.

He smirked and placed a hand on my shoulder, coming in close. “What do you want?”

“I-I don’t know,” I faltered my gaze, busying myself with my tie, which was immaculate.

I glanced up at him and saw his sly grin on his mask of a face. “Good luck for tonight.”

I turned and headed out into the corridor, down the grand staircase and across the hallway to the dining room. I took a deep breath and entered through the door a footman held open.

“Lord Daniel,” announced Carson.

I entered the dining room, seated for two amid a candlelit spread of white tablecloth, ornate silver cutlery and crystal clear goblets. I walked forward to shake the hand of the young man presented to me, no older than myself.

“Good evening, Lucas,” I said, smiling as he presented me with his own, mischievous smirk. “Shall we sit?”

I took my place opposite him, spreading the napkin over my lap and noticing his eyes never left mine, not for a second. He sipped his alcoholic drink while I opted for water, and when the meal was served he ate with a gusto most unbecoming of a young man so entitled to the English. He was a duke’s son, more esteemed than I, and in possession of one of the world’s wealthiest fortunes. He was widely known to be a playboy, spent money faster than sand runs through your fingers, and without a doubt was one of the most handsome men I had ever laid my eyes on.

“What do you do for fun around here?” he asked, when Carson had left us to dine alone. He took a deep slug of his whiskey and looked as though he could hold his weight in liquor.

“I read mostly, but I’ll stroll the gardens and take the dogs for a walk sometimes…” I didn’t know where to look with his gaze so fierce upon me. “Occasionally I’ll go riding, when the weather suits - “

“Do you like to ride?” he asked, as I met his eyes, which seemed to suggest something different altogether. My face flamed with heat yet I continued to match his gaze.

“I should probably get more practise,” said I, for lack of anything without substantial subtle vigour, but realised this was one double entendre he’d definitely leap on.

“I’ll show you,” said he, downing the rest of his glass as though the matter was settled. “Tomorrow sound good?”

I remembered the long trip he had taken to come here, and looked rather puzzled at this.

“Won’t you - “?

He smirked so suddenly, his eyes lighting up as they crinkled, and I felt a shot of carnal desire possess me like lightning. “That’s a very generous offer. Thank you.”

I had naught to say but smiled amicably and turned my attention to my plate, which was empty. Without a word to say to excuse myself otherwise, I rang the bell on the table and heard Carson’s footsteps approaching. I pushed back my chair and stood immediately.

“Would you like to move into the drawing room, sir?” asked Carson. His eyes flicked momentarily to the decanter of wine that was nearly empty, and refused a flicker of his eyes which meant disapproval on behalf of the young boy opposite his lord who had consumed it so.

“Yes, I think we shall.”

Lucas’ sly expression remained on his face but he turned into one of surprised, vexed acquiescence as he discarded his napkin on his chair and followed me through to the adjoining room.

There was a fire lit in the grate as we walked in, warm comfort to the dark night outside, hidden by red velvet curtains. Several leather armchairs faced the fireplace, while a pair of slim chairs faced a chessboard and another slimmer still serviced a grand piano, lacquered black with ivory keys.

I sat in front of the fire, as Carson followed us in and asked to serve drinks. I hesitated a second, but Lucas asked after a very fine vintage he had bought from his own cellar, and Carson ruffled his brow out of sight after accepting the offer.

While waiting in silence but for the crackling of the fire, I stared at the flames until Lucas’ gaze on me added to the heat, and I turned to him, afraid my head would deconstruct in a tongue of ashes, but blessedly it did not, though the pounding remained. I looked into his piercing blue eyes, smooth skin stretched over perfect cheekbones, blonde hair tousled artfully so. His suit was dapper, black with sterling cufflinks and an emerald green tie, but amid such masculine elegance his eyes ravished me and his intent clear; demonic inside. He was so at ease in my own home I felt my own weight within recede, and knew why he was such a success.

I felt the tempo between us build; he moved on the edge of his seat to stroke my hand, a manner so casual I felt my fingers curl into his grasp, and when I looked up at him, the door opened and the spell was broken. We barely pulled apart as Carson served the wine, pouring us both a glass before departing in silence.

“That’s quite a vintage,” I said, surprised he saw fit to spend it on me. We toasted and drank in silence, and I watched the flames curl in the grate while trying to remain pensive. I could not recall what little training I had in the art of winemaking, especially how to taste between subsorts, and worried for an instant I had made him doubt, but when he edged closer I turned to him, placing my flute on the table and watching him.

His look was so fierce, so carnal I had never seen such desire written out for me so plain to read, and when I dared breathe, it came out as a sigh so unutterably longing I saw the blur that was him in motion and felt his lips upon mine, his hands in my hair tugging both firmly, then gently, tasting the wine on his lips then his warm breath on my skin, and against all restraint I sagged in my chair, which he took for assent.

He stood over me all at once, and I saw his tall frame dominate me entirely before he leant down and kissed me again, his tongue urgently pushing against mine as he held me up, so I stood and he pushed against me, my leg digging into the armchair as his face overwhelmed mine, the rapidity of tongue and strength of his kiss and warmth of such sudden close contact willing me to collapse, to allow whatever would happen to happen, and to let such formalities beginning and ending with my resolve to be bygone.

He led me out into the corridor, holding me against the column and kissing me, his hands moving up and down my sides, with such tenderness I thought I would melt in his arms. He hefted me onto his front, where he buried his face in mine and carried me up the stairs, one at a time. We reached the top and I showed him which hallway to go down, which room was mine. When he opened the door for a moment I hesitated to check if Thomas was in there. I took it as a sign that he was not.

Almost careless in his concern that the door he pushed behind me was closed, he lifted me from where my legs wrapped around his hips and pushed me onto the bed. I sank into the coverlet as his warm body covered mine, where he proceeded to envelop me in kisses. His hands tore the buttons from my shirt before I could resist and tossed it to the carpet, before nuzzling the surface of bare chest I presented for him. His touch was electric, his kisses more so, as they wove from my neck and collarbone and to my chest, weaving around my nipples in a satisfaction so suffused I felt goosebumps cover my body and the hairs on my neck stand on end.

His tongue licked at my chest with such force and speed that I gasped out loud, and he smirked in response, his gorgeous eyes looking up at me before he maneuvered himself between my thighs, tugging the buttons off my jeans with one hand while he caressed the urgent bud beneath, covered by a band of white underwear tightly compressing the contents within. He flicked his gaze to me almost casually, his offhand grin widening as he pulled the band of my underwear up so that I could only watch as he pulled out my package, took one look at his perfect, eager face and gasped in pleasure as he took me in his mouth. I hardened with such vigor having his face planted on my crotch I must’ve been on fire, my body shuddering with pleasure as his warm mouth consumed all that was good and holy. His lips moved up and down my shaft and his tongue ran the length of me, and it was when he met my gaze I reddened and tried not to cringe at the way my legs tightened around his prone figure, eagerly sucking me so, pooling heat within my belly, across my thighs and centering in my crotch.

His speed slowed suddenly to allow for the last few strokes his mouth and tongue made across the length of me, his tongue running one last, long slide from my balls up my shaft to the tip, and as this latest pleasure caught my attention I noticed his perfect face wet with the saliva he had wet my member in, and I caught his grin, beatific and churlish in one before he took me in his mouth, sucking with such force I felt the pressure build up in my crotch and watched the top of his head bob up and down, his lips so tight against my shaft I felt it would explode, and then it did.

Such great glorious pleasure. My energy seemed to deplete before the ejaculation shot forth, and when it did I could only mouth a silent gasp before my eyes rolled back in my head, every vein and muscle pulsed and tightened, and I lifted my pelvis off the bed to accompany the surge that flooded through me and exploded into his mouth.

I was dimly aware of his presence yet of nothing else; as I flooded his being with every might I had to offer, and as my heartbeat pounded and my body began to slow as the rapidity of the emissions declined, my muscles began to stop spasming and my body began to relax, my head out of the clouds and the warm, moving figure above me moving from my body and onto the other side of the bed. My body rattled with aftershocks I could barely handle, and when I managed the strength to look over at Lucas, he was propped on one elbow, watching me lazily. His wet, sticky lips curled into a smile.


	9. Change of plans

When I awoke, it was to the sunlight streaming in through the window, the scent of cinnamon buns set on a tray beside my bed, and the distinct throb in my groin that spoke of an urge long exhausted. I was the only one in the bed.

I threw back the coverlet, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and stared out of the window at the sunlit moor that met my eyes. I pulled on the bell which would summon someone downstairs to my aid and walked into the bathroom to shower.

I emerged amid a cloud of stream, wrapped a towel around my midriff and saw Thomas laying out some clothes for me. His dark hair was slicked back, his suit formal.

“Good morning, sir,” he smiled, his eyes scoping my body clad only in a towel and resumed his handling of my clothing. “I have a message from your guest last night.”

My stomach felt leaden; anxious. “What did he say?”

“He left late last night after dinner, mentioned an urgent errand and that he had to leave. He asked to pass on his apologies.”

Despite my limited interaction with morning-after calls, my mind began to sway with possibilities, but they all came up naught. I swallowed a lump in my throat, blinked back the emotion which threatened to course and dismissively shook it aside.

“Very well.”

I turned back to the window, which had grown cloudier since I saw it not half an hour ago. It looked to be an overcast day with little chance of shine, not terribly unlike my feelings at the moment. It all seemed to be churning, melding into a wash and I felt Thomas’ eyes upon my back at the same time I penalised myself for giving myself up so freely.

“Is breakfast ready?” I asked, for lack of anything to say.

“Yes, sir.” said Thomas, as I turned and walked past him, but he laid a hand on my arm.

I had never seen him look anything other than wry or malicious, yet when his brows knitted together to form a concerned expression, I felt my body go leaden and the blood tighten in my face.

“Don’t,” I pulled away, not meeting his gaze. I knew he was shocked, but I didn’t dare open up to this man, let alone a valet.

I made it through breakfast, passing along the compliments of the food to Carson. I took credit from him that he did not mention last night. When I had finished the meal I stared out of the window, dripping with the rain which pounded the stretch of moor beyond. The trees shook in the howling wind and the sky had darkened to something deeply depressing.

The day passed with no noticeable interference. I walked the length of the estate and back again, opting to read first in the drawing room, then remembering the kiss and returning to my bedroom. My head was a mess, my emotions a blur.

I thought back to my time in California, where I had met Tyler and Steve and Scott, and more than once I blamed myself before coming to the startling realisation that I had done nothing more than give into my emotions. With Tyler, a LA stud with the look of a model, I could’ve given into him, but later found out he spoke of me as though I was already his. With Steve, I should’ve spoken sooner… especially when news of Tyler’s supposed exploits with me reached his ears. With Scott, he was amazing in bed, but it was purely a sexual connection, and nothing more substantial seemed to arise.

My thoughts swayed like a pendulum and came to rest on the young guy I had met last night: Lucas. He was from my world, as entitled and moneyed as I, yet he had left me all the same. With the memories of last night making me twitch between my legs and flood my emotion with promise, I had been left all the same, and with doubt as to his real intentions. A guy like that could - and had - had some of the world’s best to offer, so to visit and leave after pleasuring me could be nothing more than ticking a box in his bucket list, I presumed. One of the many theories I conjured up while my brain took on a strain trying to define the night we had. I went over and over in my head about the things that had gone wrong; what I could’ve done better; what I should’ve done in the first place to stop the mess. Tyler. Steve. Scott. Lucas.

I declined dinner and retired to my bedroom, my clothes abandoned on the floor while I curled up in bed and tried to read a novel but to no avail. The pit in my stomach grew by the minute. My face was caked with dry tears and my eyes sore from rubbing. If I felt any more a fool, it was now… for at all times, during my upbringing and every waking moment, I had it drilled into me to not give into my emotions. My Pandora’s box had been opened, and all my fears crept out, like silent shadows with wings like a bat, scuttling like mice to slide beneath the cracks and out of my reach.

Before I knew it, moonlight filtered through the curtains I had neglected to draw and I lay underneath the sheets, a wet stain on my pillow from tears and the occasional snuffle from time to time as I tried not to move and sink into sleep. It was painful to feel this kind of rejection, and I knew others had it worse than me, but in those moments I felt I was at the lowest ebb of my life.

The next morning, the sun shone through the window to wake me, though a quick look around guaranteed no servant had entered to bother my sleep. I roused groggily, fighting back the impulse to feel sorry for myself. As I threw the coverlet back and padded into the bathroom, I looked into the mirror over the sink and saw the reflection staring back: hair askew from a bad night’s sleep, face red and dry from crying, expression miserable. I drew myself up to a straighter posture and regarded the fighter staring back. I would not let this affect me. I would carry on as usual.

I showered quickly, washing my face and applying cream to hide the tell tale signs.

When I emerged, I saw the clothes laid out on the bed, with Thomas on hand to help me dress.

“Good morning, sir,” said he, more solemn than I took him for, and I hesitated.

“Thomas, I hope my behaviour yesterday won’t cause a rift between us.”

He was surprised, but managed a smile. “Very good, sir.”

I let his hands glide around me as he dressed me; efficient as ever. After he brushed lint from my pants and adjusted my belt, he stepped back to confirm he was done.

“Thank you, Thomas.” I realised he along with the rest of the servants must’ve congregated on some level with regard to Lucas’ sudden departure, and given the frequency of late night male callers to this estate, they must’ve shared a shard of sympathy for my plight.

I moved past him to descend the grand staircase for breakfast, and when I entered the dining room and took my seat at the head of the table, Carson poured me fresh orange juice before passing me a handwritten note on a gilded tray. “A call for you, taken this morning, sir.”

My heartbeat increased as I read it. “He wants me to return his call?”

“He does, my lord,” replied Carson.

I set aside the message and began to eat the breakfast laid in front of me. “I see.”

When afternoon peaked across the estate, the sun began to dry the dew from the grass and the puddles that had formed during the rainy night. I was sitting in my bedroom,, piecing together a jigsaw of a country home rich with gardenia, when Carson knocked to announce a visitor. “Lord Lucas to see you, my lord.”

“Without any warning?” I was surprised. “I’m in no position to receive.”

I wore an oversized green jumper over a knitted sweater, with elastic pants over woolen leggings, and thick argyle socks encased in sheepskin slippers. My face was bare and my hair was askew. I would never appear so unadorned in company.

“He was quite insistent, my lord… shall I turn him away?”

“No, I’ll see him,” said I, standing up to my fullest height. If he had the impropriety to imposition me during a private moment, then he would see me as I am in my most primal form. “Send him in.”

When Lucas walked in, I was taken aback by how truly handsome he was. He wore a white T-shirt that clung to his strong frame and tight jeans, his wavy hair slightly wet.

“Good afternoon, Lucas,” I smiled, offering my hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

He took one glance at the jigsaw pieces scattered about the carpet, took in my disheveled appearance and smirked, shaking my hand. “You’re quite the homebody.”

I disguised an inappropriate sneer behind a nonchalant glance and replied, “You’ve come such a long way to see me.”

I regarded him critically. Wasn’t he supposed to apologise for his sudden departure last time he visited?

“Tell me if I’m wrong, but you don’t look ready for any sort of relationship. I gathered that when I was here.” said he.

I was taken aback. Though the sex was glorious, he was right. I didn’t imagine being Lucas’ significant other.

“You’re right,” I stuttered, remembering Steve and the warmth of his embrace I considered more pivotal than any sexual exchange I had experienced. “Does that bother you?”

Slowly his smile grew to a grin. “I think you know I want fun. If you do too, that’s fine with me.”

He grazed my earlobe with his teeth, biting it gently. When a barely discernible moan escaped my lips, he drew away, staring me full in the face.

He stood and left, his footsteps down the hallway eventually quieting. I looked up and noticed he had left the door ajar.

“Would you like me to close the door, my lord?” Carson asked, his booming voice reverberating.

“If you would be so kind,” I replied, and he complied. Thank God for somebody I could rely upon.

Sitting alone in my bedroom, plainly clothed and unadorned, I wondered what would happen if I stayed in this estate a moment longer. I couldn’t very well expect to wait until I was the earl, could I? There were still experiences to pursue, chances I had at life that very few on Earth could lay claim to… and yet, why was I hesitating?

I made up my mind. I would travel, and by extension, learn about myself. I would find out what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be with and where I would do it all.


	10. New York

Freshly scrubbed in jeans and a white T-shirt, my most casual attire yet, I boarded the Gulfstream and greeted the pilots and stewards to whom I would owe my safety during the flight. I took my seat and, after accepting a glass of water from a tray, watched as the English countryside receded into a glittering mass of ocean which stretched out before me. Seven hours with little more to do than gaze and sleep.

I arrived in New York at four in the morning. I brushed off my sleepiness, awake with a jolt of energy. I was in the Big Apple - the hub of activity in America - where achievement and social status came hand in hand with disaster and scandal.

I emerged onto the tarmac to find a chauffeured Mercedes-Benz, who was more than happy to drive me to my hotel. I sat quietly in the back seat, plush in starched leather with a minibar fridge stocked with drinks, my hands clasped in my lap.

I had never visited America before. My experience was limited, but my knowledge was vast, for I knew of it by geographical and historical summation and was determined to make my way here. This was the first step of my journey to seek out my place.

It was one thing to be stuck in traffic, another to hear the frenzied hubbub of honking cars and industrial activity, but when the city came into view, my heartbeat increased. I glanced up at the skyscrapers jutting into the sky, lit like so many stars in the sky. It was breathtaking.

The chauffeur dropped me in front of the Four Seasons, where he helped a nearby valet load my suitcases onto a luggage trolley while I entered the lobby. It was laid in opulence, with gilded chandeliers above and the clacking footsteps of weary businessmen on the marble lobby below. A long bench held a number of receptionists, one of whom smiled as I approached.

“Good morning, sir.”

She took my ID and credit card before handing me my room key, indicating where I might find the elevator and suggesting I dine that night in the hotel’s own restaurant.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you,” I said, turning away and trying not to explode the swell of excitement building up inside me. I had finally arrived in New York!

I took the elevator to my floor, where two doors facing each other read A and B. I slid my card into B and with a click it opened. Tremulously, I went inside.

The suite was huge, with a living room that featured two suede couches around a glass table and floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of Manhattan. The bathroom was tiled in pink carrara marble, with a rain shower and gilded claw-foot tub. I moved into the bedroom, where a king-sized bed made with starched white linens and a gold coverlet was situated beside a reading chair with a lamp. I moved to the bay window set with cushions and almost crumpled in delight at seeing such dazzling splendor abroad. It was a dream for many to live here, and I could see why.

I picked up the slim phone and dialed reception, ordering room service for breakfast and a chauffeur to take me around Manhattan for the day. Finally, filled with nerves and excitement, I watched the day unfold as sunrise arced high above the skyline.

Madison Avenue was like stumbling into a dream. Blessedly air-conditioned, I spent what seemed like an eternity browsing the racks and shelves of clothing, pausing to consider a scarf or a pair of shoes, while endlessly weighing up the colours and cuts of shirts and jeans and jackets. While it became ever more clear to the shop assistants that I had not a clue what to purchase, they attempted to steer me in the right direction but to no avail. I exited the store onto a hot, crowded pavement where taxis jostled for space amidst screeching of tyres. Quickly I was consumed by the pedestrian traffic before breaking free to find my limousine parked on the curb.

“Thank you,” I said to the chauffeur, who held open my door. I disappeared inside as though being sucked from one vortex into another.

The cool leather and tinted windows were a relief as the car took into traffic, only to jam almost immediately between a bus and a pair of taxis.

“This happens all the time,” the chauffeur commented.

“Indeed,” I told him.

When the traffic began moving, it wasn’t long before I arrived on Fifth Avenue, where I was to meet a realtor to view an apartment to buy. The chauffeur helped me out of the back seat, the doorman greeted me as I walked underneath the awning, and when I entered the lobby, furnished with quiet elegance, I saw the realtor waiting for me. Her dark hair was a lacquered helmet and wore expensive clothing and carried a tiny handbag, She leapt at me in typical New York fastidiousness and shook my hand.

She showed me the penthouse apartment by swiping an access card against the fob in the private elevator, and as we rose in silence I could hear her brain trying to digest how much of a commission she would earn if she made this sale.

She held the door open for me as I passed through, and while keeping my face a mask I glanced about in silent astonishment, for it was truly epic. The penthouse had spectacular views over the city through windows that stretched two floors wide. The motif was definitively minimalistic: in shades of black or white or slate-grey, areas were recessed to allow optimum space and were separated from one another by clean lines. The kitchen was outfitted with chrome fixtures and restaurant-grade appliances; the bathrooms were tiled in white with rain showers and sleek bath tubs; the living spaces were expansive and could accompany several lounge suites; and the master bedroom had its own balcony, atop which I looked down into midtown traffic.

With three entire floors devoted to optimum efficiency, not including the rooftop terrace, it was love at first sight. However, I still had other apartments to view.

The Park Avenue penthouse we viewed next was a step up in size, featuring a slate-grey motif alongside onyx and marble architecture. Though undoubtedly opulent, it wasn’t for me, and I lingered long enough to view the cityscape of Central Park from the floor-to-ceiling windows that spanned the many rooms.

The Upper East Side townhouse we viewed next was four stories high, furnished throughout with gilded mirrors and marble statues, with wraparound views of the city and a walled terrace with a garden, pool and gazebo. It was picturesque, but much too fanciful for my liking. Besides, what would I do with all the extra space?

The final viewing was the penthouse triplex at The Pierre. It was grandly proportioned with views of the city and high ceilings in rooms spread with gilded chaise longues and antiquities atop marble plinths. I appreciated its beauty, but despite its largesse and refined glamour, it was too much for me to buy. Ninety-five million was the asking price, USD, and even with the favourable exchange rate I was unwilling to part with such a sum. I had long since made up my mind, and after shaking the realtor’s hand goodbye, I left in my chauffeured limousine back to my suite at the Four Seasons.


	11. Bungalow 8

Darkness blanketed the sky, but for the few stars that shone, a million more lit up the city of New York. Rigid skyscrapers stood tall amidst the glowing traffic below, where vehicles the size of ants jostled with each other for space on the electric grid.

My suitcases were unpacked and my clothing hung up neatly in the closet, while the bedcovers were turned back to entice sleepiness and the dining table held the remains of an excellent meal, courtesy of room service. I sat at the bay window, reclining on a cushion with a book in my grasp, glancing up occasionally to watch the skyline of Manhattan, filled in with the blue-black of darkness lit up by city lights.

I was surprised to hear my cell phone emitting a classical tune, and reached for it on the bedside table where it was currently charging. The ID was unknown, but the area code was for Manhattan, so I answered it with a certain briskness.

“Hello?”

“Daniel? It’s Jessica! Why didn’t you tell me you were in New York?”

This surprised me. Jessica was one of my sister’s friends, a socialite with whom I had been introduced to only once, three years prior. I was surprised she remembered.

“I only just arrived, really…” I said, sitting on the corner of the well-made bed.

“I’m sure you did!” she chirped, laughing throatily. “Now, you must tell me where you are staying and we will come visit!”

“We?” I asked. “You’re bringing an entourage?”

“No, silly! Just a couple of friends, you know. I’m keen to know how you’ve been doing since I saw you last!”

Quite a bit of heartbreak, would be the indulgent reply, but I merely replied an assent after informing her of the name of the hotel, and promptly hung up. An impromptu meeting with Jessica, who was one of those glamorous New York socialites who never went anywhere without being perfectly groomed and attired to within an inch of her life. I showered quickly, dressing into a navy shirt and jeans, attempting to coax my parted blonde hair into something less prim. When the call came through that I had visitors, I told reception to let them up and spritzed myself lightly with cologne before walking out into the lobby.

“Daniel!” gasped Jessica, a vision in pearls and pink with her chestnut-brown hair artfully tousled down one shoulder. “It’s been so long!”

She came in close to kiss me on both cheeks, Euro style, to which I reluctantly complied and faced the rest of her posse, giving me the Manhattan once-over.

“This is John, my boyfriend,” said Jessica, placing her hand on the bicep of a well-dressed, handsome guy with dark hair slicked back. He smirked and shook my hand, a more self-assured man than I thought possible.

“Nice to meet you,” said John.

“John’s an investment banker on Wall Street,” quipped Jessica, gazing up at him with adoring eyes.

“How are you finding working there, John?” I asked, and the group tittered.

“A British accent!” said one. “You sound like Prince William.”

“Have you met any of the royals?” asked a girl who stepped forward inquisitively. She wore her shiny blonde hair cut in a precise bob, clutching her Kelly purse with long, manicured fingers. wearing a little black dress on her slim figure.

“This is Chloe,” said Jessica, whose willowy brunette self compared admirably to Chloe’s golden hair and dazzling white teeth. “She’s on the prowl tonight.”

“I can’t help it!” smiled Chloe, a burst of charisma all at once. “There’s so many good-looking, rich guys out there.”

“Not that you need to score one,” bristled Jessica, turning to me. “Chloe’s the heiress to a pharmaceutical fortune. She’s got enough money of her own.”

“As do you!” Chloe laughed and turned to John. “You’ve got to stop spending so much on her! At the rate you’re going, we’re due for another depression!”

“Recession,” remarked John.

“Whatever,” Chloe rolled her eyes.

Jessica smiled indulgently and led me to the two other members of her group, who had decided to go walkabouts and were admiring the view of the Manhattan skyline.

“This is Miyu. She’s visiting from Japan,” said Jessica, indicating the svelte beauty with raven-black hair who smiled curtly. “And this is Jackson. He recently graduated from Harvard and joined some banking firm…?”

“JPMorgan Chase,” he smirked, holding out his hand. His stare was intense and he wore a suit that fitted him perfectly. “Jackson.”

His grip was firm and I noticed, having done so with everyone, that all of them were affluent well above the level of the average consumer. John wore Hugo Boss aftershave and his teeth spoke of serious dentistry. Chloe laughed, revealing a diamond necklace at her throat and hitched her Kelly purse higher. In the gilded opulence of the suite, there was little left to do for these partying types but to head for greener pastures.

“Let’s head to Bungalow 8!” said she, to general agreement, as she took me by the arm and led me along to the elevator.

“So, Daniel, where have you been lately?” she asked, as everyone stood tight within the vestibule while it descended.

“Oh, here and there,” I smiled, to her laughter.

“I love that British accent of yours!”

Across the lobby we walked, an incongruous sight amidst the travel-worn older patrons who passed us by, porter in tow hefting their monogrammed luggage. Both Jessica and Chloe were gorgeous, while Miyu was a spectacle all her own in sedated glamour. John chatted easily with Jackson, both in bespoke suits as they discussed the finer points of finance.

“I haven’t been in New York long,” I said to Jessica, who nodded curiously.

“I can tell!” she smiled, glancing down at my attire. “I thought all Englishmen were good dressers!”

I stifled the remark and continued, “I don’t think fashion is much for me.”

She laughed and swatted me affectionately. “We have to arrange a shopping jaunt one of these days. You can’t dress British in the States!”

Her pealing laughter was infectious, I decided; though I could tell her friends returned the sentiment. John was at ease, but Chloe more than often watched me beside Jessica and even Jackson glanced once or twice at my oxford button-down.

I knew I dressed modestly, but I just wasn’t the sort of person to go to great lengths to maintain a mirror perfect image of myself.

We emerged onto the forecourt, where several chauffeured sedans and limousines were parked at the curb, their drivers conversing to one another.

“Here’s our ride,” said Chloe, slipping in the back seat as everyone else followed.

I crammed in beside Miyu, who looked outside the tinted windows to the flashing lights pass by, while John cracked open a bottle of champagne.

“So, Daniel,” I turned to see Jackson looking me straight in the eye, in that fearless aggression that so many New Yorkers possessed. “You never told us what you do.”

“Jackson!” Jessica laughed, balancing her purse atop her Herve Leger-wrapped knee. “We’re not all worker bees like you are.”

“It’s just a question,” replied Jackson amiably, though it was clear that in this carriage, if you didn’t work or marry someone who did, you were a failure.

“And if you were to guess?” I asked, daring this American he-devil who pronounced himself superior.

His eyes judged the quality of my grooming, the taste in clothing and my upper-crust British accent.

“I’d say you’re skipping the pond for a good time,” he smirked, glancing around at the limousine’s occupants as though expecting them to fish through their wallets for a donation.

“What sort of good time am I pursuing?” I asked, but the fun was over for him.

“Who knows,” he relaxed on the comfy leather. “I’m not a mind reader. But I can look at you and know something.”

“And what’s that?” I smiled despite the pounding in my jaw.

“Jackson, don’t be rude,” Jessica pursed her lips in disapproval. “He’s only been here a day. You can hardly expect him to put in as much effort with his appearance as you do.”

“He’d have to carry a mirror all day,” laughed Chloe, to general twitters.

“Shut up, Chloe.” Jackson frowned, then slouched and looked out the window. He turned back to me. “I’m not interested in the company of hangers-on.”

My smile remained fixed while I turned away, and though Jessica and Chloe began a diatribe of insults towards Jackson, the damage was done.

“You can be a real prick,” said Jessica, turning to John. “Can you hit your friend for me? I’ll trip over Miyu if I get up.”

John shrugged, a casual gesture. “Dude! Lighten up: New York is a city full of people trying to make it.”

“You’re on Wall Street,  _ dude _ ,” replied Jackson. “You’re taking down anyone who doesn’t make it. What do you think of that, huh?”

Again, he fixed his gaze on me. I had no choice but to return it, politely.

“Do you have a problem with me?” I shot back.

“Yeah,” said he, unfazed by my bluntness. “I have a problem with you. Your fake accent, your cheap clothes. I don’t know how you go out in public with that nose - “

I stiffened and Chloe remarked, “I think it’s nice! It reminds me of Princess Diana.”

I reddened despite myself, but this comment only served to inflame Jackson’s anger.

“You’re stiff, shy and clearly won the company of Jessica by some act of gratitude she felt necessary to perform for one of her friends - “

A flurry of insistent rebukes shot forth from Jessica and Chloe, but went unnoticed.

“You seem to have such descriptive quality, for a man of Harvard,” I said.

“MBA,” he added, scoffing and looking me directly in the eye. “What have you got going for you, huh?”

I had never been so directly insulted, but neither would I sit there and take it. Shaking with nerves, I opened my mouth to reply - 

“Driver, pull over, please.”

The limousine ground to a halt, spilling champagne in Jackson’s lap. “What the fuck?”

“Get out,” Jessica bared her teeth in a growl. “Get the fuck out, Jackson.”

“Are you fucking nuts - “

Jackson attempted to stand but John gave him a firm but insistent push in the direction of the curb. The breeze gave me goosebumps, but more so was the accusatory stare Jackson gave me. “Him? What did I ever do?”

“You’re a low rank-and-file money grubber.  _ You’re _ the climber, Jackson,” said Jessica, kicking at his sopping pant leg with her heel. “Get out of my limousine.”

“You’ve got to be joking!”

Standing on the pavement and sopping wet from the champagne, Jackson was left behind as the limousine pulled away, everyone silent but for Miyu, who burst suddenly into peals of laughter. When she realised everyone was watching her, she wiped her eyes and showed them her iPhone, where a sloth hung one-armed from a branch before falling to his doom.

“Oh, that’s funny,” she wept, her gaze suddenly alert as she glanced around. “Where did the other guy go?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“So, Daniel,” said John, after Miyu had been pulled aside to consult with the girls on other epically funny YouTube clips, “What do you really do?”

I shrugged and smiled self-deprecatingly. “Oh, you know. This and that.”

He turned to Jessica. “Jess?”

Jessica glanced at me, her expression warning. “If I tell, you can’t blame me for what happens next.”

“What’ll happen next?” asked Chloe, her interest piqued. “Tell me more.”

Jessica paused for a second, during which I weighed up the benefits. What good would it do? I nodded imperceptibly.

“Daniel’s the son of a billionaire,” said Jessica, to which Miyu replied, “Who isn’t?”

Jessica frowned and Chloe reminded her to get Botox next time she was abroad.

“Well, that’s good enough,” smiled Jessica, lowering her voice so only I could hear. “I hope you don’t mind. Your sister didn’t want me to tell everyone you’re the heir to an earl.”

The night was all I had expected and more. Bungalow was thriving - there was no shortage of candidates willing to flaunt their flesh and prove their status. When the limousine stopped at the kerb to let us out, all eyes snapped to us. There was a line a mile along, packed tightly within the confines of velvet rope, where the entrance was guarded by a beefy bouncer, wearing all black and consulting an earpiece. The night air was static with excitement; the babble of uproar intermingled with the sounds booming from inside, and I felt charged just being in everyone’s presence.

“You can all go in,” he said, to the waiting civilian’s moans of dissent. They watched us file in: the suave, handsome banker; the slim, effete women; and me, an aristocratic bearing and perfunctory expressionless calm speaking volumes over the grasping, clambering majority of Manhattan’s youth.

Where the clamour outside was loud, inside was filled with the popping of champagne corks, shirtless bartenders in little more than underwear mixing martinis and loud, raucous laughter from either the groups ensconced in private booths or the raised podium where people danced to be seen, swaying to the music or clutching each other.

Within minutes, we had secured one of the booths in a private section roped off with velvet rope. Ensconced close together, champagne was ordered and flowed freely into crystal glasses while Chloe danced on the lap of a startlingly gorgeous Italian guy; John and Jessica cuddled and whispered sentiments between themselves; and Miyu sat beside me, pointedly ignoring everyone with her gaze on her iPhone.

The beat was terrific, the lights flashing, and while all everyone seemed to do was get close to each other or dance on the stage, it was clear I was in a crowd of moneyed, beautiful youth, all of whom congregated with each other to expound their affluent lives on one another.

It wasn’t long before the crowd inside increased in volume, and we were one of the many tables the newcomers paid tribute to; flashing compliments on Jessica’s couture or giddy affectations to John’s success on Wall Street, who brought in over a quarter of a million dollars per year. Chloe, indeed the heiress to a pharmaceutical fortune, while Miyu was the daughter to a Japanese investment conglomerate.

Inevitably, introductions were made and I shook countless hands or replied with nods to those who merely smiled. All were gorgeous, flaunting muscular bods beneath tight, ribbed tank tops or sheer, short dresses from the latest designers.

“Who is he?” asked one girl, stepping out onto the balcony beside Chloe. “That accent is glorious, don’t you think? But the way he dresses!”

Chloe leaned against the balustrade, tapping ash off her cigarette and rolled her eyes into the distance. “I know. The British are very subdued in their clothing.”

“And he’s one of us?” asked the girl, referencing their exclusive circle made up of the rich, the beautiful and the connected. “He’s so stiff and formal.”

“Jessica knows his sister.” Chloe complied. “He’s very well connected in British society, that much is for sure.”

“And he’s… available?” asked the girl, who shook her head when Chloe peered at her. “Oh, not for me! I can tell he’s only into men.”

“Who are you trying to set him up with?” asked Chloe, taking a long drag on her cigarette and blowing smoke into the breeze.

“Nobody, yet,” the girl demurred, taking another look inside, where Daniel sat ensconced in the booth, talking animatedly to Jessica. “But give it time. He’s made his first splash into New York society, whether he likes it or not.”

I returned to the Four Seasons hotel at five in the morning, mildly tipsy from the night’s antics which had included five bottles of expensive champagne spread about a dozen patrons. My gait was steady and my vernacular clear, but my demeanour was a lot more relaxed as I made my way up the steps into the lobby and rode the elevator to my suite.

The first few streaks of dawn crisscrossed the sky through the wide bay window, and when I entered the bedroom I noticed the bedcovers pulled back invitingly. My shirt was slightly damp with perspiration, my jeans spotted with the tiniest drop of spilled champagne, and my face alive with excitement. I stepped out of my clothes, rinsed my face and brushed my teeth before splaying onto the covers of my bed. I was asleep within seconds.


	12. Penthouse view

The next few weeks was packed full of activities, not all of them suggested by Jessica, whose interests held tight to the confines of the Upper West Side. I visited the Empire State building, where I viewed the skyline lit up at night and felt a great swell of pride at my self-sufficiency. I saw  _ Chicago _ and  _ The Lion King _ on Broadway, visited the Toys R Us store where an indoor ferris wheel held court, viewed wax figurines of famous celebrities at Madame Tussauds. There was the visit to the Bronx and Central Park zoos, viewings at the many museums including the Metropolitan, and a tour of the Statue of Liberty. I visited the New York Public Library, adding ideas to my collection of books I wanted to read. There was jazz at Lincoln Centre, the Metropolitan Opera and the New York City Ballet. There were these and a hundred more I visited during the first few weeks I stayed in New York, and I had never felt so truly alive.

I spent my days on the streets of New York, browsing stores and viewing centres, amidst the hustle and bustle of citizens whose goals were lofty: already I knew that for every millionaire who made it, a thousand more became more successful by the second. The rising tide took everyone by storm, and while wives uptown suffered silently while they clutched their pearls and bohemian dwellers downtown functioned simply on their meagre allowance, I was among the few lucky enough to tour such an amazing city, unaffected by the pursuit and lure of lucre.

My initial bid for the penthouse triplex on Fifth Avenue had been accepted, and when Jessica heard the news she insisted she come view the apartment with me. With white glove service and a twenty-four hour doorman, she was glad to see I had chosen such a splendid apartment, with sweeping views of the city and a large terrace upon which to host intimate gatherings. The eighth floor held a spacious kitchen with white marble surfaces, while the living room adjacent paid court to views of Greenwich Avenue two stories high. A room further down the hallway would be a good place for a library, commented Jessica. The ninth floor paid host to three guest bedrooms, all with ensuite bathrooms and walk-in closets, while a balcony which overlooked the living room on the eighth floor could be used for a study. The tenth floor led into the master sitting room, where along a hallway the master bedroom was situated, adjacent to the master bath and a large walk-in wardrobe. A balcony extended from the master bedroom, where atop the eleventh floor and accessed by either stairs or elevator was the massive terrace, looking out upon the city in all its glory.

“You’ve made a great decision, Daniel,” smiled Jessica, clutching my wrist tightly, her perfume Chanel no. 5. “Now all you need is an interior designer to spruce this place up…”

“I have some ideas,” I commented, though Jessica smiled indulgently. “I was thinking more of a minimalistic theme.”

“Perfect!” said she, her beam revealing rows of perfectly white teeth. “I know just who to call.”

Back in my hotel suite, I sat curled up on the window seat, clutching a cup of hot chocolate, sipping it while I gazed at the city lights outside. Despite urges from Jessica to come out partying, I graciously declined the offer, wanting a night for myself.

After the shopping jaunts she had taken me on in which we selected fabrics and colour tones for carpet and every home furniture and household item I might conceivably require, from Pratesi linens to Mont Blanc pens. Everything chosen was sleek and minimalistic, in shades of black or white or slate-grey, making the most of recessed areas to create an open, inviting space.

When Jessica asked which firm I had consulted to hire household staff, I merely told her I hadn’t yet researched any valid candidates.

“But, Daniel!” her eyes crinkled in delight and she emitted peals of laughter. “You’ll need to get onto it right away! Luckily, I have a list of agencies perfect for the position.”

With a triplex penthouse furnished in minimalistic fashion, Jessica suggested that I hire a housekeeper and two maids, along with a chauffeur, since ‘New York traffic is so terrible, there’s no point driving your own car in the midtown rush’.

When Jessica asked how many nights a week I would require the services of a private chef, I replied, “I’ll eat out, I expect,” to which she smiled and replied, “Now you’re thinking like a New Yorker.”

She had set up an interview with the head of a household recruiting firm in the Upper West Side, a polished older woman with high cheekbones and impeccable vernacular.

“Thank you for visiting us, Mr Spencer,” spoke she, indicating I take a seat opposite her desk as she consulted a binder on her desk. “Jessica speaks very highly of you.”

“She returns the sentiment,” I smiled. “She uses this firm for her domestic arrangements, I’m told.”

“She’s one of our most valued clients,” the older woman inclined her head, slipping on a pair of spectacles and clasping her hands together. “So, before we begin: tell me about yourself. You’ve moved to New York recently, I gather?”

“That’s correct. This is my first time in New York, and I’m still getting used to the rhythms of life here.”

“It can be quite a challenge, and an adventure in one,” smiled the lady.

“Indeed,” I replied.

“And what do you do, Mr Spencer?” she smiled, leaning forward.

“I’m a real estate entrepreneur,” I smiled back. “I’m visiting from the UK.”

“How long do you expect to stay in New York?”

“I’ve decided six months, at least,” I said. “At my other properties I’ve delegated the functions of hiring household staff to the property managers.”

“I’d like to assess your needs on a daily and weekly basis, to further understand how our firm can help you accomplish your needs. Where will you be living?”

“61 Fifth Avenue,” I said, though I knew I was expected to elaborate. “The penthouse apartment.”

“I see,” she smiled, consulting some papers. “I thought I heard some rumours that triplex was sold. You’ve come to the right place.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

“What does your schedule involve?” she asked, in what became a series of questions about my routines.

“I eat in or dine out, whichever I don’t mind. I do a lot of touring, especially shopping, now that Jessica’s involved in helping furnish my apartment. I stay out late sometimes, but not too late - and I don’t expect to house anyone besides myself in the foreseeable future.”

“The way I see it, you’ll be occupying a large apartment and entertaining perhaps once, twice a month. You’ll dine out more than you eat in, and you don’t often have guests over. Am I correct?”

“I’d like to set you up with a housekeeper at first, who will be in charge of keeping your apartment organised and tidy while you’re away. She can arrive after breakfast and leave in the evening, but how many nights a week do you think is necessary?”

I paused a moment. “She can come every other day, I suppose.”

“Will you be needing a chauffeur?”

“I rely on the services of one from my hotel, but I’m not certain yet if I’ll purchase a personal vehicle.”

“You mentioned you often dine out. Will you be requiring the attention of a personal chef?”

I paused. In New York, it was pro forma to use your oven to store maintenance manuals.

“I’ll think about it.” I said. “I should manage fine by myself.”

The interview went as well as expected. Soon, I would be a resident of New York.


	13. Jack

I woke up in my suite at the Four Seasons, on what would be my last day before I collected the keys from the real estate agent. I had a lot of work to do, not only filling out forms for residence and tax purposes, but also immigration - although my peerage granted a practically instant approval. I would have to supervise the movers while they hauled in furniture from around the state. The housekeeper would meet me at the apartment, where I would conduct a preliminary interview prior to the house being in order. After everything was moved in, Jessica insisted that I throw a moving-in party, but after mentioning I knew practically nobody, she waved it aside like an errant fly and insisted she knew “just the right blend of people” to invite.

From her contacts at  _ Vogue _ , Jessica had provided me with the lookbooks of several designers stationed upon Madison Avenue. She had commented briefly on my ‘sober, sensible clothes’ and suggested I make an appointment for private fittings if any of the couture featured in the collections appealed to my liking. During my perusal, I had noticed how much bolder and brighter the clothing was, especially in its cuts and fabrics. Four times a year like clockwork, the family tailor on Savile Row took in my measurements and sent me a full wardrobe of clothing, dark and navy blue colours with sedate cufflinks and formal dress shoes. Americans were so bloody in-your-face about everything, so aggressive about their rights. But now, I was one of them.

I rose from the bed, showered and dressed, greeting room service as they delivered a tray with bacon, hash browns and sausages, along with a crystal jug of orange juice.

My cell phone rang and this time, surprisingly, it was Chloe.

“Have-you-got-plans-for-the-summer?” she asked, without stopping to breathe.

“I haven’t thought about it,” I replied.

She sounded surprised. We’re all going to the Hamptons, so you should look at buying a place there.” she sniffed. “It’s gorgeous down there.”

“I’ve only just bought a place in New York,” I said.

“So?” she scoffed. “Are all you Brits so conservative?”

I imagined Chloe, like all her socialite and trust-fund friends, to do nothing all day but plot ways to spend the most money, be it on property, antiques or appearances.

I browsed real estate listings for the Hamptons and was surprised by what I found. White-shingled mansions surrounded by acres of manicured lawn and views of the sea. It was paradise, if one wanted to dilly-dally poolside sipping a beverage on a recliner seat. By comparison, I enjoyed reading fireside with a mug of hot cocoa, and while many would trade places with me for the option to spend their summers relaxing in the sun, I was more intellectual and inspired, not yet ready to indulge leisurely.

I spent my afternoon at the New York Public Library, where I signed up for a membership card and indulged in a small portion of what was thousands of books, yet to be read and waiting to be plucked from the shelves by eager, print-stained hands.

I had a lot of reading to do.

While the tech-savvy youth of this generation were content with the litany of devices at their beck and call - iPhones, iPods, iPads, Kindles - I preferred the personal touch. I wrote letters more often than I sent e-mails, preferred to meet in person than chat on the phone, enjoyed listening to music from home speakers rather than wear earphones and risk being in an automobile accident, and especially when it came to reading, I preferred papyrus to podcasts. This made me old-fashioned, but hey, I  _ was _ British. Some elements of style never go out of fashion.

It was that evening that I decided I would do something very different, very daring. I would venture downtown to visit the gay nightlife. It was a decision I had come to when I had had enough of the snide-subtle comments about my dress and behaviour from the few times I had gone back to Bungalow with Jessica and her friends.

While she was perfectly happy to introduce me and converse with me all night, her other friends weren’t so sure.

“It’s not money; they know you have that.” Jessica sighed deeply. “And of course, if you’re recommended by me, they know there’s something I’m not telling them which makes you interesting in their eyes. It’s just…”

“I know,” I smiled, shrugging helplessly. “I’m not as ab-fab beautiful as them. Plastic gorgeous. Hyper trendy.”

“Yeah…” Jessica dragged out the sentiment. She composed to herself. “They’re a group seeking a lot of high-powered fun - “

“Drinking, naked skydives, taking drugs - “

“And I know you can’t commit to any of those!” smiled Jessica, patting me on the hand. “I know you have to be a good boy in the press. But it wouldn’t hurt to get to know some people!”

This was true. In New York alone, there were so many different subcultures that one could get lost in a maze of introspection.

Now I stood in front of the mirror, appraising my navy shirt and jeans, spritzing cologne on my neck and wrists, applying gel through my hair. I had called down to reception to arrange a car to take me downtown, and having spent a month straight in the hotel, they were more than happy to oblige.

The Lincoln Town Car purred as it drove through the streets of Manhattan, into the West Village where it dropped me outside Monster, a gay bar with its raging inhabitants spilling onto the sidewalk flashing confident smiles, tight denim and all-American attitude. I stepped through the crowd, feeling the music and lights pulse as I made it inside. Crowds of men, some in tight thongs and little else filled the cramped space. I made it to the bar, ordered a nonalcoholic beverage from the bartender with bulging pecs and handed him my credit card, to which he arched an eyebrow and smiled in surprise.

My vision blurred and eardrums throbbed as I took in the wild, throbbing mass of writhing bodies at every turn. There was little seating which wasn’t occupied or spilled liquids upon. My expression remained fixed, politely interested; to which I must’ve been a wall for the person who tapped on my shoulder, shouting above the volume to get my attention.

I offered him a brief smile as we mouthed greetings and he shook my hand. He had piercing eyes and brown hair, wore a striped shirt tucked into jeans and smiled with a mouth full of perfect dentistry. As we turned back to the crowd at large, him with one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other clutching a Budweiser, he caught me eye and grinned, to which my follow-up response was subsumed by the roar that leapt up from the crowd.

He motioned to the outdoors and I followed his lead, making my way through the convulsing, sweating masses to the fresh air outside.

“That’s better,” he said, his accent definitely New Yorker-ish. He was slightly tanned and stood relaxed as he cast a cursory look to the honking taxis and pedestrians, alive with fervour. “How are you doing?”

“Good, thank you,” I replied, and found I rather liked his inviting smile, especially his teeth! Who knew teeth could be so white?

“That’s a great accent.” he grinned. “I’m Jack.”

“Daniel. It’s quite a city you have here.”

“Visiting from out of state?” he cocked his brow.

“Sort of. I’ve recently decided to move.”

“Oh?” he smirked. “How did you get on with finding your way around the boroughs?”

I liked this man, I decided. He was funny and smart and not persistent, just the way I liked them.

“Challenging, at first,” I admitted. “But I’ve developed a certain fondness for your yellow cabs. I’ve never seen such aggression in tight traffic.”

“Yeah, they’re a hoot,” grinned he, to which I smiled.

“I shouldn’t say this, after drinking quite a bit,” he leant in closer, and I could smell the scent of his cologne, see the wiry hairs on his forearm that held his drink. “I think you’re pretty cute.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” said I, to which his smile deepened.

It wasn’t long before we had hailed a cab, sat beside each other on the ripped leather and I gave my address to the driver.

“The Four Seasons, huh?” he turned to me and smiled, and were it not for my years of expensive education and formal etiquette I would’ve taken him then and there.

I paid the fare with cash, not wanting to flash my credit card, and led him across the lobby and into the elevator, where we stood side-by-side and touched hands more than once. When we reached the door to my suite, I dropped my key card as I retrieved it from my wallet and he bent to pick it up, my cheeks flaming with heat.

He swiped it for me and pushed the door open, swaying on his frame and undoubtedly more than tipsy.

“Nice,” he whistled, casting a glance at the golden hued furniture and sweeping views.

He moved further inside, peeking inside the ajar door which lead to the bedroom. The covers were pulled back invitingly and he gestured me to follow him. Were all Americans so forward?

He was glancing at the view from the bay window when I entered. He looked so tall and golden and handsome, but swayed on his feet when I approached and he had to steady himself on a nearby lamp stand.

“Are you alright?” I mused, though he was clearly not sober. “I’ll get you some water - “

“No, I’m fine,” he grinned, though I could smell the alcohol on his breath, more apparent now. He came in close and I could feel my senses igniting, the hairs on my body alert in response, the wave of elation that came with such a moment.

He leant down to me as I pushed him onto the bed, splaying him on his back as I straddled my legs around his waist, kissing him deeply. His lips tasted like gold and his tongue like vigor, my pulse increasing as the blood flowed around my body, taking delight in my senses and my renewed invigoration.

We made out for what seemed like hours, while he ran his hands across my hips and ribcage, pulling at the buttons on my shirt with achingly infinitesimal pause, until my bare chest laid against his, ripped and muscular with smooth tightness.

We kissed and bit and licked until our lips ran dry and bitten, and by the time we had finished we were so spent we lay in each other’s arms till dawn, unfulfilled physically but uplifted mentally.

I awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. Blearily I opened my eyes, pulling myself away from the sleeping frame of Jack to answer it on the bedside table.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Good morning, sir. This is your wake-up call for seven thirty.”

I glanced out to the view, where Manhattan was raising its ruckus amidst the dawn streaks of day. Jack slept soundly, shirt wrinkled from where I had slept on top and a content expression on his face.

“Could you send up some breakfast, please. I will be in the shower so please set it up while I’m away.”

I hung up the phone and entered the ensuite, stripping off my sweat-stained clothing and stepping into the shower. I washed quickly, drying and freshening myself up with a few pats of face cream, hair gel and cologne on each wrist. Finally, tiptoeing across the suite so I wouldn’t wake him, I retrieved an ironed shirt and folded pair of jeans from the closet, dressing as I heard the porter set up my breakfast quietly in the adjoining room.

“Uh.” I turned to see Jack rousing groggily from the bed, his hair tousled and clothes messy. He ran a hand over his face and let out a low groaning sound.

“How are you doing?” I asked, to which he grinned and pulled himself off the bed.

“I think I’ll be OK with a glass of water… can I use your shower?”

I left him to shower in private while I ate breakfast in the dining room. They had set a grand feast for my parting visit, free of charge: muesli yoghurt, freshly baked croissants and muffins, bacon, ham, sausages, tomatoes, along with pitchers of apple, orange and tomato juice, a large jug of green tea and piping hot black coffee.

I had a slight hangover, but the smell of bacon and a large sip of coffee which singed my lips more than quickly solved that. When Jack returned, he wore the same, crumpled clothing from last night but the problem of his breath was solved.

“I figured you wouldn’t invite me to such a delicious feast with bad oral hygiene.”

I smiled indulgently and suggested he have some breakfast. While still a bit groggy, he raised his fork and knife and tucked into eggs benedict, pouring himself orange juice from the pitcher shining in the sun’s rays.

“I think I slept badly,” said he, scoping his eyes over me. He grinned suddenly. “We should’ve taken our clothes off last night.”

I shrugged, a simple gesture that followed a quick smile. “Maybe next time.”

His grin broadened, jabbing forward with half a piece of bacon dangling for dear life.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He winced from his hangover but was used to early starts and late finishes. He was a med student at Columbia, finishing up his post-grad residency before applying to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, Maryland. When he asked what it was that I did, I replied that I was visiting from the UK and had recently purchased an apartment. I hesitated for a bit, then mentioned, “I’m not sure at the moment.”

“It’s not my business,” he smiled, though his eyes twinkled and I could tell he wanted to know more. He had probed gently but thoroughly, with the candor that came from an open, warm personality. By comparison, I was a private person and modest with all achievements, especially one so damning as the income disparity when socialising with those who had to work for a living.

I checked my Rolex and saw that I had to meet the movers in an hour, and he mentioned that he was studying for his final examinations before Christmas. We stood, half-eaten breakfast abandoned on the circular glass table and he bent his head to mine to kiss, and I luxuriated in the feel of his tongue on mine, the warmth of his body, even the graze of his half-stubble check on mine.

“I’ll pay you back for that mouth wash,” he grinned, as I walked him to the door.

“It’s no problem,” I said, smiling back. Regardless, we swapped numbers and bade each other farewell.

I turned back to the suite, half-eaten breakfast laid out on the table and sweat-stained sheets strewn across the bed. I began packing my suitcases, paid my final bill across the counter in the lobby and took a taxi to Fifth Avenue.


	14. Settling in

It took just over a week for all of the furniture to arrive from across the state. In the living room where the sun filtered in from the windows two-stories high, a white sectional couch surrounded a glass coffee table atop a cream rug, while adjacent to a fireplace was a recessed bookcase near a Steinway grand piano. In the kitchen, with top-quality appliances and white marble countertops; while in the bathrooms, clawfoot tubs faced rain showers with heated tiles underneath. The guest bedrooms were identical for their beds made with starched white linens and accompanying ensuites and walk-in closets. In the study, a desk with my laptop faced the view and single-seater chairs in white leather crowded the fireplace. The master bedroom was similar to the guest bedrooms except that the bed was larger and the duvet with a royal blue print, and the balcony adjoining it held comfortable chairs which looked out onto the view beyond. Finally, the terrace was an entertaining area set up with a stainless steel barbecue, tables and chairs and potted plants throughout.

I had met the housekeeper, Lucy, who would visit every other day to clean and organise and, if necessary, prepare three meals a day if I was home. She wore her blonde hair in a ponytail, had a slim figure from the Atkins diet and was always studiously polite, paid a king’s ransom for this part-time position which warranted the utmost tact and care.

By ten pm, Lucy had left hours ago and I sat on the balcony adjoining my bedroom, the night breeze tickling my skin while I curled up on a recliner chair and read a    
_ John Grisham _ novel. Occasionally my mind would flick back to Jack, but then it would remain here, at this point in time, where I was most content.

I had decided I wanted to learn, and one thing New York wasn’t short of was classes, taught by a variety of professionals in a range of locations across the island. I learned how to cut and arrange flowers in a variety of vases, erect an easel and paint shades of grey on a canvas, prepare and cook simple meals at home, knead dough and bake tasty delights, and tried my hand at writing fiction.

I ended up bringing all of these pursuits back into my home, and soon enough I had erected a painting easel on the second storey balcony, my study desk held a variety of cut and coloured vases with different flower arrangements in each, my pantry and refrigerator held baking and cooking materials, and my bedside table held a number of notebooks, all with scribbles indecipherable even to me.

One thing New York wasn’t short on was teaching others how to do things better. I signed up for a variety of classes on flower arranging, painting, cooking and baking, and a fiction writing workshop before spending an hour at each and deciding my creativity would flourish in the privacy of my own home.

It wasn’t long before I had erected an easel on the second storey balcony, where the living room caught the afternoon sun; put away my laptop off my study desk, where it was replaced by a number of cut and coloured vases, filled with a variety of flower arrangements; filling my refrigerator and pantry with all manner of products vital to preparation in both baking and cooking; and where my bedside table once stood empty, now overflowed with notebooks and stationery to scribble my every thought that began to take form in my head as a story I might someday like to tell.

Lucy wiped the countertops and tidied the bookshelf and vacuumed the carpets and made the bed, but when it came to my artistic pursuits, she knew better than to disturb the ‘creative mess’ I left in nearly every room I visited. Despite this flurry of activity at my whim, I still found time to escape outside, where I would tread the pavement filled with New Yorkers, eat a hotdog at a stand outside Madison Square Garden, take an afternoon walk through Central Park, visit one of the many eateries downtown to taste ethnic cuisine, or meet up with Jessica and one of her friends, who unlike me preferred to stay within the confines of uptown, shopping endlessly along Madison Avenue, dining out at Per Se or partying at Bungalow until the break of dawn.

I sat in my study one such afternoon, after searching through scribbled-in notebooks to transcribe onto my laptop, when the doorbell rang and I stood to answer it.

“I can fix you a sandwich,” offered Lucy, walking in the opposite direction with an armful of freshly scented towels.

“Just a salad will do, thank you,” I called over my shoulder, walking into the foyer and opening the door.

It was Jessica. She wore a beige pencil skirt that cinched her waist and a crisp white shirt that displayed her slender, bronzed arms. Her Manolos clacked on the tiles as she kissed me on the cheek and walked past me to inspect the apartment.

“You’ve done well!” she exclaimed, setting her Birkin beside her as she sat upon the sectional couch, gazing up at the views. “It really is a beautiful apartment.”

“Can I get you anything?” asked Lucy, by comparison drab in her jeans and ponytail.

“A glass of mineral water will do,” replied Jessica, turning to me. “So. I’ve arranged the guest list, everyone’s on board, apart from a few who will be out of town, but I’ve sorted that. I just need to know if you’re OK with next weekend.”

Ten days away, but it was doable.

“Sure,” I replied.

“I’ve found a company which handles catering and bartenders, but you don’t have a bar on the terrace yet, do you?” she asked, standing suddenly. “Give me a tour.”

I showed her every room on each floor, and while she marveled at the areas untouched by my creative hazards, she was adept at hiding her expression when noticing the stalks of artificial flowers atop a bookcase or the laptop charger cord trailing haphazardly across the bedroom floor.

“You’ve done a lot with the space,” she said, for lack of anything to say. She leaned in close and gripped my wrist. “Luckily, it’ll be a lot more  _ spacious _ on the night of the party!”

“I’d like to invite some more people,” I said, to which Jessica produced her iPhone and began tapping on it with her manicured finger like a woodpecker.

“Your sister?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, using the typical codeword. “She’s traveling. There’s this guy I met…”

Jack and I had chatted chiefly by e-mail, since he was entering his final exams and was often too exhausted at night to contribute anything substantial. He had called me once to hang out, but I had just changed service provider and missed the notification.

“Who is he?” asked Jessica, finger poised above the touchscreen as though she were about to Google him.

“He’s a med student at Columbia. He’s been living on-campus for about five years, and he’s really cute…” I stopped at the look on Jessica’s face.

“You’re glowing!” she erupted in peals of laughter. “I’ll have to consult the guest list, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Who have you invited so far?” I asked.

“You’ll have to find out,” she smiled mysteriously.

We stood and took to the terrace, overlooking Greenwich Avenue in sunny pride, so Jessica could scope the dimensions of the balcony for where to situate the bar.

“You know what?” she said, tapping on the tiles with her Manolo heel. “I think you need a hot tub.”

“I’ll think about it.”


	15. Cosy stroking

I sat in front of the roaring fireplace in the study, where a winter chill had finally gripped Manhattan. Cosy and wrapped in a blanket, I lay on the rug reading  _ The Devil Wears Prada _ for the fifth time, alongside a collection of magazines strewn across the floor. There was a lookbook for Calvin Klein, real estate listings in the Hamptons by Sotheby’s, Ralph Lauren’s home furnishing collection, and an architecture digest showing modern conveniences set against a minimalistic home.

In what was an aggressive campaign, it was generally assumed that when one had money in New York, it was spent on the finest things one could afford to accumulate.

Jessica was under no illusions about my wealth, but seemed to forget that I was prudential in matters of money, and especially private. She had suggestions for private trainers, summer homes in the Hamptons, antiques and art to display in my home.

“Why not splash out a little?” she asked defensively, when I had idly mentioned that a Picasso for a hundred million was ‘a bit steep’.

“It’s all for good taste.” she had added, but to no benefit but herself.

I didn’t need to remind her that I had no need to impress anybody with either money or prestige; in fact, it came hand and hand whenever I attended a family function which involved announcing those with peerage, and moving across the world to a city which thrived on achievement didn’t make me need to fit in. I already knew my place.

My cell phone rang on the side table and I stood up, surprised not to see Jessica’s name on the screen. I answered the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Jack,” smiled the voice down the line. “I hope I’m not imposing, but can I invite you out to dinner tonight?”

I smiled, glancing at my watch. It was eight-thirty.

“I’ve lived here for less than a month and even I know reservations at any spot will be impossible,” I replied coyly, turning onto my back and closing my eyes to the warmth of the fireplace.

“You’re probably right,” he said. “Now that my exams are over, all I want to do is celebrate.”

“Well, why don’t you come over?” I asked, a knot forming in my stomach in anxiety.

“Where do you live?” he asked, tapping on his phone, perhaps searching on Google Maps.”

“61 Park Avenue,” I replied.

He let out a low whistle. “That’s quite a walk.”

I stopped myself in time to offer him a taxi, free of charge. The momentary silence was enough for me to worry I had said something wrong, but then - 

“I think you’ll have to offer me a bed for the night,” he grinned, and my face flooded with heat.

When I hung up, I surveyed my creative detritus and decided to put it away in the closet, tucking every last pencil and stray flower stalk into the shelves within. I checked each room in the apartment, immaculate as always, for I took up little space and used even less. The pantry was full, the fridge was stocked and fresh towels hung on the rail in the guest bathrooms.

I showered quickly, changed into a dress shirt and casual jeans, spruced up my face and hair and had just spritzed myself with cologne when the doorbell rang. I took the elevator to the 8th floor, strode across the foyer and opened the door.

Jack stood there in his navy shirt and tan chinos, sopping wet underneath a raincoat and grinning enthusiastically.

“Come in,” I ushered, as I put the raincoat on a hat rack beside the door, noticing how tall he was and damp his hair. “I’ll get you a towel.”

He was looking up in awe at the living room when I returned, handing him a fluffy white towel with which he used to rough-dry his hair. I noticed raindrops on his creased shirt and pants, and wondered aloud, had he come all this on a subway tram, in soaking wet weather for me?

He kissed me all of a sudden, and I was taken by the passion he drove in me. He was a step taller than me but he felt like an invincible warrior, with his gentle caress and his mouth, hot on mine, that I felt calm to be in his arms.

We broke apart and stared into each other’s eyes, and I led him upstairs to the bedroom, where he took a glance at the pristine white sheets stretched over the large bed, then to the private balcony adjoining with a view of the stars.

I was surprised for him to lead me, this time, past the bed where I thought he would ravage me and to the balcony, where he took me in his arms again, surprisingly delicately and crushed my lips in his. It was the kind of kiss worthy of the scene.


	16. Toast of Manhattan

It was a week to the day, and I stood on the terrace of my triplex penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, underneath the starry night sky. Young men and women in their twenties and early thirties milled about, where waiters in penguin suits served glasses of champagne or hors d'oeuvres on trays. Lucy, glammed up for the night in a beige shift and her hair shining golden, greeted guests at the door and directed them to the living room, where a pianist and jazzist performed a duet; or up to the terrace via the stairs or private elevator, where a bartender mixed cocktails behind the counter or those who wanted to brave the chill stripped half-naked and took a dip in the hot tub.

“This is amazing,” I said to Jessica. She wore her hair loose and in curls around her shoulders, with a halter dress in pink cinched at the waist. “Thank you, Jessica.”

“It’s no problem,” she smiled. “Look around you! You’ve got to socialise.”

She had more than helped with this endeavour. Her guest list had involved upper-crust socialites and affluent achievers, but more than once I would notice Jessica walking towards me with a man on her arm, and with a sly smile she would introduce me to countless men, all handsome or rich. They would offer what position they held, be it hedge funder or lawyer or contemporary artist, and I would reply in kind with my vague occupation of ‘property investor’. They would be surprised by my British accent, delight in my refined modesty and shake my hand with vigor, promising everything from ‘dinner sometime’, a ‘private viewing at my gallery’, or ‘a tour of New York, by helicopter’.

“Good evening,” I greeted Chloe, who wore a Herve Leger dress that cinched her tiny frame to perfection. “Thank you for coming.”

“Jeez! You’re so formal,” she laughed witheringly, kissing me on both cheeks.

I had told Jessica to invite Jack, but in case she forgot, I informed him in person. We had met up twice in the past week, once lunching at a Mexican cafe downtown where I tried fajitas and split the bill; second, we took a walk in Central Park together, holding hands and feeding the pigeons. Since that rainy night Jack had risked the subway late at night, I found him to be genuinely warm and kind, though we had yet to sleep together, having enjoyed the comfort of each other’s kisses and cuddles.

“There’s plenty of guys here who want to date you,” Jessica had said.

“They barely know me!” I had exclaimed.

She waved away the excuse. “This is just how New York is. Dating is like a competitive sport.”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready,” I said.

“Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that other guy,” said Jessica, irritated. “You can date more than one guy at a time, you know! There’s plenty of them out there and they’re all interested in  _ you _ .”

Looking back on that conversation, Jessica was right. There was more than a healthy score of interest in my person and arrival in New York. There wasn’t a question of money, now that I reached that upper rung of society. Now it was: how did you make it? What do you do with it? And to what extent do you care what people think of you? This last one decided how far you were willing to go to maintain your name and position.

But unlike so many Manhattanites, who drew up seating charts for charity functions, closing deals on Wall Street as stockbrokers, petitioning politicians as lobbyists or staying married in an unfaithful union to retain the leisure spending and moneyed status that one might acquire, I was none of these people. I had enough money to last me several lifetimes, enough self-confidence to not care what people thought, and my ambition was limited to only my creative pursuits. These people and all of New York society could see  _ I didn’t care _ . And pulling that off convincingly, here tonight in front of everyone, made them all want me more - a piece of that indifferent unconcern that came so naturally to old-money members of upper-crust society.

My cell phone rang in my pocket and I answered it when I saw Jack’s name on the caller ID.

“Hey,” I grinned, to which I heard an intake of breath.

“Hey,” Jack sounded pained. “Listen, I’m afraid I’ve got to cancel. I’ve been called into work.”

Jack worked at the New York Presbyterian Hospital, picking up remedial shifts here and there. They were crucial to his resume, with so many other applicants out there, and I knew he couldn’t cancel.

“No, that’s fine,” I reassured him, though the pit in my stomach made me feel otherwise. “Let’s hang out another night.”

The party had ended on a high note, with Jessica addressing the guests and giving thanks to their participation. Everyone paid their compliments to the spectacular penthouse view and shook my hand before they left. Jessica waved to John, who would wait outside in the limousine to take them home.

“So?” asked Jessica, a picture of excitement as she squeezed my hand. “You’re a part of New York society now.”

She left with a kiss on each cheek and departed for the foyer, her heels clacking on the tiles. Shortly after, Lucy changed into a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt and began directing the work of the cleaners. While they mopped the hardwood floors, vacuumed the carpets, collected the wet towels from the terrace and washed the newly purchased cocktail glasses, I thanked and paid the pianist and jazzist, insisting I would recommend them highly, to which they were deeply grateful.

I retired to my bedroom after bidding Lucy goodnight, stripping my clothes off and lying bare in my underwear for the starry gaze to see. My eyelids shuddered momentarily in an achingly long awaited moment, and I drifted off to sleep.


	17. Jacking Jack

A few days later, I had made my first private jaunt to the clothing stores on Madison Avenue. The weather had grown chilly, and while it hadn’t compared to the cold in the UK at first, it had certainly come a close rival. Jack had yet to visit; his hours increased now that more traffic accidents were happening over the holidays yet to come, and he had told me it was unlikely he would have Christmas off.

Inside the flagship Barney’s store, it was warm and toasty, with wealthy women in warm plaid greeting one another on their way from FAO Schwarz, the specialty boutique for children products oversized and overpriced. I browsed the racks, taking a few pieces I considered essential, but none of the outfits proffered, which looked to be more in vogue of being fashionable than actually keeping the occupant warm.

I searched the men’s sections of luxury boutiques such as Hugo Boss or Karl Lagerfeld, where outfits were made-to-measure, and the only purchase I could justify making were the scarves, rich in detail. I selected three in sober colours and had just paid for them at the counter when I bumped into one of the men I had met at my party, although I couldn’t remember his name.

“Daniel,” he smiled, offering his hand. His face was handsome though his nose was in sharp contrast, and hours of dedication to the gym showed in the tight fit of his tailored suit. His masculine cologne was overpowering and his handshake was dry and brisk. “What a surprise to see you out and about.”

“It’s good to see you, Will,” I said. “Thank you for coming to the party last night.”

“It’s no problem,” he smiled, with all the ease of a man who knows he’s the top dog. “Quite the turnout.”

“Quite,” I remarked, glancing up at him and smiling. He knew as well as I did that the party was nothing less than a meat market for Jessica to introduce her friend to the highest echelon of Manhattan’s elite and receive favors in the process.

“How are your holiday plans?” he asked.

“Still debating whether to stay here or go abroad,” I replied. “I’ve just returned from the UK, and have no desire to be even colder than I am now.”

He smirked and laughed at this, replying, “I know what you mean. I have a ranch upstate and no matter how many fireplaces are lit, you never get the damn chill out. Still, it’s better than here.”

“I’m sure it is,” I replied agreeably, though the twinkle in his eyes suggested otherwise. “I should go before the taxis freeze over.”

“I can give you a ride,” he said. “I’m heading back to the office and I’ll pass your building on the way.”

“Well,” I hesitated fractionally, then relented. “That sounds swell, thank you.”

He coughed hastily to cover his smirk and lead the way out, to where his sleek black Jaguar was parked. He opened the back door for me and I slid across the white leather to where a smart chauffeur in a cap greeted me with a nod.

“61 Park Avenue,” said Will, sliding in after me and shutting the frosty air out with a snap of his door. “Then on to the firm.”

“Very good, Mr Gardner.” The chauffeur raised the partition.

Now I remembered. He was a named partner at a law firm downtown. There was the explanation for the ego: but as I had learned, you needed little more than pride for the American flag to receive a sense of entitlement.

We sped through roads caked with snow, while the shovelers performed their best to pave it out of the way. There was a frenzy of honking, tyres squealing and industrial noise to cover the chatter of those who dared to leave the warmth of their cars to challenge the overworked street cleaners on the pavement.

“So,” said Will, turning to me. He was easily ten years older than me, but wore the signs well. His compelling gaze led me to find him quite attractive. “Would you like to have dinner this weekend?”

Jessica told me this would happen, this speed-dating that New Yorkers were famous for. With so little time and so much to achieve, who wanted to take it slow?

Looking into Will’s eyes, I wondered what a man so busy with his time would’ve had to put aside to put me first, especially considering his heavy workload, I was sure. When I voiced this sentiment, he opened his hands in a devil-may-care gesture and smirked. “It’s just work. It can wait.”

Now this was supposed to make me feel special, especially due to his position. It made him sound like he was all-powerful, with time and money to spare. Few New Yorkers could boast of such an advantage despite overwhelming odds to keep going.

I glanced away at this, then turned back and smiling. “Sure. That sounds great.”

When the car stopped in front of 61 Park, Will actually leaned over and kissed me. It was so sudden that I had no chance to protest, not that I wanted him to stop. When he pulled away, I gave him a quick smile and thanked him for the ride, closing the door as my shoes made footprints on the grey slush that formed in the gutters.

When I had made it back to my apartment, I closed the door behind me and greeted Lucy, who wore a crimson scarf around a sweater and noticed I was glowing.

I brushed off the comment and headed upstairs to put away my purchases.

It was only a day later that Jack called me to give me the good news: he had swapped a night shift with another med student and asked if I was free for him to come over.

Since he lived in campus housing and shared a dorm with two others, he never bothered to ask me to visit him, especially since it was more private at my place.

“Sure,” I said, delighted with his call. My plans of late had included taking bowls of soup and mugs of hot cocoa to my bedroom and watching reruns of  _ Gilmore Girls _ . I didn’t include this fact. “I’ll see you soon.”

Since Jack had to take the subway in the freezing cold, I paid the favor back in kind by preparing a potato and beef stew. I had removed the boiling pan from the stovetop and had just sprinkled it with garlic salt when I heard the doorbell rang.

He was all smiles as I greeted him in, engaging at length in a kiss with him which only served to heat me more than cooking the stew had done.

“You shouldn’t have,” I said, noticing the bottle of wine he had bought over. I had no eye for labels, but was glad of something to pair the meal with. “Thank you.”

When we reached the bedroom, the windows were dusted with frost and snowflakes drifted through the air, amid the warm heating inside the well-made bedroom. Jack turned to admire the view through the window, and I sat on the bed, noticing the dried patch of frost on his shirt.

“Are you warm?” I asked. “You should take off your shirt.”

He turned and grinned, unbuttoning his shirt as he came closer. His light chest hair covered between his nipples and down to his navel, which was almost perfect. Unlike many Manhattanites who devoted hours a week to the gym, Jack’s schedule was filled with med classes and late-night shifts at the hospital, one of the many who had no time for such leisure errands.

I pulled him closer and his eyes dropped from mine to my chest as he unbuttoned me similarly, his eyes widening in delight and his tongue sticking through his teeth as he scoped my smooth, flat chest. I let him lie on top of me, where he roamed my mouth with his lips and tongue. His warmth on top of me was delicious, adding to the heat already present in the room. He caressed my hair and neck while I roamed his back with my hands, enjoying the easy weight of him and his attempts to stay above the belt. I maneuvered him onto his side, where he lay on his back and watched as I unbuckled his belt with a snap, unzipping his fly and pulling down his jeans as he lifted his pelvis to accompany the movement. He wore black boxer briefs underneath. He inhaled sharply as I positioned myself between his legs, laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes momentarily as I ran a delicate hand over the bulge which jutted erect through the fabric. I slid my fingers under the waistband of his briefs, pulled them down to his knees and tried not to stare at the glory of his dick, erect with a mass of hair around it. I lay prone on the bed and eagerly leapt at his genitals with my tongue.

He groaned and ran his hands through my hair, delicately as they began shaking from the intensity of my effort. I marveled in his reactions as he moaned again, eyes tightly shut as I lapped at his balls and the sides of his thighs; the shaft of his cock and the tip which dewed so deliciously, and when I took him in his mouth his thighs and hands shuddered. I gloried in the taste of his cock, sucking up and down before, almost too suddenly, he let out a cry of pleasure and I felt his juices cram my mouth and throat, as his member twitched and surged, lodged in my throat where I hoped it would stay.

He lay rigid for a few seconds, eyes shut in the glory of orgasm, while I lay beside him and gloried in the sight of seeing him spread out on my bed, his chest hair and speckled shoulders and hard dick twitching between his hairy legs. There were sweat patches underneath his arms from the effort and when he got up he delivered a delicious smirk.

He got on top of me and I felt his breath and sweat and intent as he removed my jeans and tight white briefs, running a hand over my smooth chest. He lowered himself between my thighs and I could only glimpse the back of his head as I felt his tongue, making glorious slow strides across the length of my dick and making me cry out in abandon. I could feel his lips touch the base of my shaft as he licked it and made his way up and down, occasionally tonguing my balls to unbelievable pleasure. He circled my cock with his tongue, running it up and down the length before taking me whole, his lips a glory as they ran up and down, before I exploded in orgasm and I wondered how sticky his face would be on par with how rigorous each shudder my body shook.

Each time was better than the last. When I had managed to glance at him, he came close and he was soaked in sweat and other juices, coming close to nuzzle me on the neck. It was an embrace entirely unexpected and I could feel something, but I knew better than to voice it. Instead, I kept it inside me like a vigil.


	18. Will G.

“Are you a Red Sox fan?” asked Will, stiffly drinking his Budweiser and staring across the table at me. “I can’t stand the Mets.”

“You’ll have to talk me round,” I smiled, though he smirked and knew I had no opinion on New York baseball teams. “I haven’t even seen a game yet.”

We dined at Per Se, where white tablecloths and small, intimate candlelight provided a perfect setting for the rich, upstate dinner. Amid a crowd of well-dressed women in their diamonds and men with their Rolexes consulting their mental Rolodexes, the night was a ‘see-or-be-seen’ adventure. Will had grandly insisted on paying for everything by the end of the night, and though I didn’t mind at this point and had consumed two glasses of the wine he had proffered on me earlier, I was in a happy mood as he slid my coat around me and we ventured outside into the frosty snap of the chilly air.

“Thank you for the dinner. It was excellent,” I smiled. His smile only pronounced his beak-like nose, but his face was otherwise handsome. “You’ll have to tell me about that lawyer next time.”

“So there’s a next time?” he mock asked, grinning, and I wondered how many people he chose out of me to date that night. It was well known that in Manhattan, few men stuck to dating solely one person and could balance three without upsetting the balance of monogamy.

“Let me give you a ride,” he insisted. “It’s on the way to mine.”

“Yours is on the other side of town,” I smiled, having to almost stand on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek as he stood tall. “Good night, Will.”

He signaled a cab and watched as I collected myself within, choosing to give him a brief smile before I gave the driver my address and watched the city blur with snow.

When I returned to my apartment, I hung my coat on the rack and walked further into the apartment, only for its resounding silence to greet me. I entered the living room, where the fireplace was roaring and sat in front of it, warming my hands toasty and unraveling the scarf from my neck as I lay down on the rug, my eyes closing in a sleepy, contented lapse caused by the wine.

I stirred at the sun shining through my window. I rubbed my face, raw from the rug and remembered that I had given Lucy had two paid weeks off over the Christmas vacation period. She was more than delighted, but kept it to herself and made a pot roast that night that was to die for.

I was in more of a morose mood than usual, and it wasn’t just because I hadn’t made plans to spend the holidays with anyone. Jack had called to let me know that he would be sequestered at the hospital, filling in extra shifts where needed. His unspoken fear was that he wouldn’t be accepted to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, and if he had to stay an extra year to gain additional medical experience he would need to start renting and provide one heck of a down payment and credit history.

Alone in the privacy of my bedroom, I kept the shutters closed but left the lamps on, swaddling myself in an oversized forest-green sweater, elastic cord pants and argyle socks. I snuggled into bed, wrapping the sheets around me and clutching my mug of hot chocolate close as I watched TV. The blaring static was an accompaniment to the sources of light that gathered around me like the warmth, and the infertility I posed by not tending to my natural habitat or needs.

When the day grew to a close and evening fell as suddenly as the temperature dropped, I roused from my half-sleep and flicked through the channels with the remote. My eyes were red-rimmed and sore from lack of sleep, my cheeks raw from tears long dried and my unshaven, unshowered self wrapped in hot, sweaty clothes furthered by sheets that hindered movement and hampered progress.

If there was little occasion to rise beside visiting the bathroom barely three paces away, I saw little need for it. My cell phone rang unanswered from its perch upon the kitchen counter downstairs. All my e-mails went unanswered. For once, I felt like I had lost my connection with all mankind… and then I bolted upright, sheets strewn about me like a billowing dress, for I remembered something very vital, something I scrambled in my bedside drawer for a pen and pad to transcribe, before it lost weight like sand through my fingers. I found an ambient gaze beside the lamp and quickly notated what ran through my mind, my excellent handwriting giving way to scribbles before long and pages ripped off one after another, joining a wad of crumpled note paper at the foot of the bed.

I tossed the stationery in the general direction of the bedside table and missed, but ignored it as I collapsed back on my bed, eyes squeezed tight to stop the flow of emotion coursing through me. I had suffered and I had survived, and my torment was especially less given those many homeless by unemployment who shivered in shacks as settlers, but my pain was profound, on a relative level by one who had experienced heartbreak. I knew it would be over soon; my bouts of emotion usually only lasted a brief period, then enclosed in a tight shell, never to be examined again for a long time.

Blearily I glanced over at the alarm clock. It was nearing midnight.

I shook off the covers, padded across to the en suite and turned on the light. The harsh glare threw my features into relief. Red rimmed eyes, pale face streaked with sweat, hair mussed, clothes disheveled. I peeled off layer after layer, stepping into the shower and blasting myself with hot water, rinsing off the sweat and grime.

When I was clean, I dried myself and stepped out into the bedroom, pulling the blinds and revealing a venetian filter of midnight shadow upon the twisted bed sheets.

I ran a hand through my damp hair, wrapped myself in a toweling robe and slippers and took the elevator down to the kitchen, checking my cell phone for messages.


	19. Ruminations

A few days later, I received an invitation - by e-mail, seeing as the written word was dead in this tech-society of ours - to one of the countless parties thrown in celebration of New Years Eve. This wasn’t to the televised show broadcast to New Yorkers as the ball drops in Times Square, nor was it to be in corporate premises cleared especially for the occasion, where a coterie of Wall Street execs snorted cocaine off lithe blonde beauties while chugging down Krug champagne by the bottle.

This party was to be held aboard a superyacht, fitted with a helipad so guests could be personally flown in. I thought it all rather vulgar, even considering the host was among the rarefied few possessing one of the world’s largest family fortunes, but even I was so not so scant as to appear in society pages guzzling oysters and tanning aboard a phallic vessel like none other. I had no desire to be ‘validated’, something Americans would never understand.

But to be fair, the British have in their society circles those who wish to ‘be seen’, too. Such reality shows as  _ Geordie Shore _ or  _ Made in Chelsea _ advocate Brits with horrid local accents, splashing shopping sprees or flying private while a team of cameramen documents their so-called ‘intrigues’ with little regard for the fact that they, too, move in exclusive circles and tend to sleep with the same people in every season.

It was unavoidable, especially in today’s generation, not to notice the effect mass media has on the population everywhere in the world, in every income bracket and every tier of society. Middle-class Joes and Janes covet the supermodels in fashion pages, who in turn outclass each other with appearing in party pages more and finding a billionaire to marry. Housewives no longer seek the best cookie recipe, they want a career to come first and fight for feminism. Men who earn millions on Wall Street yearn to be the billionaires who receive tax cuts from the Obama administration, owning only the finest homes, cars, jets and wives.

But as it was for me, I didn’t need to indulge in an invitation that said to society: Here I am. It was enough that I be understood by the company I chose to keep, limited as it was. Money, an ever-constant substance of my life, would only cause others to create twisted ideals of me - that I might make their lives easier by financing theirs, or allowing them through social avenues with which only my peerage can unlock. It would be a never-ending pursuit to keep up with someone I chose to have on my arm, who lavished and spent and saw me as the background for which they might shine. And even among those who preferred privacy, who didn’t mind staying home for the holidays, could just as conceivably take one look at the grand estate I stood to inherit and think, I could get used to this.

These thoughts and many more were contributing factors to my cycle of melancholy, which led me into fits of anxiety and listlessness. I had never held a relationship longer than my fist, and yet while I didn’t ache to satisfy that particular response, it was enough to find company who enjoyed me for me, not my position or money. To do otherwise would be pointless.

I had only just finished reminiscing about the men I had slept with, weighing each up in my mind as to their varied vigor and tastes, when I glanced again at the sender of the invitation. I had assumed, like every other invitation I had received since my welcoming party, that it was from some individual asking me out in some manner or another, clearly getting the picture that not only was I above being impressed, but money spent on me was not going to be money well spent.

I tucked the invitation away in its gilded envelope and placed it on my desk, walking through the wide corridors leading to the mammoth rooms which made up my apartment. There was an elevator on each floor, but I preferred to take the stairs. The exercise would do me good, seeing as I didn’t subscribe to a workout and diet regimen prescribed by a personal trainer, especially in Manhattan where everyone ached to be a size zero and drape themselves in designer second skins.

The next day, after a brief sleep fostered by a large serving of black coffee at the breakfast table, I ate bacon and sausages for breakfast to help me perk up.

I was not a Christmas person, having long ago foregone the tradition of gift giving and family get-togethers. I was a private person, and unlike so many wealthy aristocrats who spent their trust fund on lavish parties and accumulating friends, I was content to enjoy my own company at the best of times, sitting in front of a roaring fireplace with a book in my lap and a mug of steaming hot chocolate nearby.

My cell phone emitted a classical tune, not unlike a jazz number I’d heard on the end credits of  _ Mad Men _ . I reached across the table and checked the message.

It was from Jack, informing me that he had wrangled some free time over the vacation period to visit his parents in Connecticut. He wished me merry tidings and all the rest, saying he’d visit in the new year, etc, etc…

Not that I was particularly perturbed, of course. I had expected him to work through New Years, and who was I to assume he’d chose me over his family? We’d known each other barely a month.

But even with this in mind, the stretch of Christmas and New Year’s to come without any type of comfort left its mark. As much as I had tried to refuse it to myself, some small hope existed that I would get to spend it with someone, especially Jack, whose affectionate embraces and tender sex put him on par with my basic expertise.

I blew on the hot mug of cocoa to cool it and pondered the situation calmly, sipping it to avoid burning my lips. A metaphor I would do well to bade next time.


	20. Raw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the warning tags before proceeding.

By evenfall I had purchased several new outfits at Barney’s, the monolithic department store seven stories high and festooned in wreaths and holly for the holiday season. Staying true to my British sense of style, they were somber navy and dark colours, fitted jeans and nondescript belts and shoes. They didn’t feel any different but marked me as a Manhattanite who could afford mid priced designer fabrics and cared little what the world thought while I lived atop my triplex penthouse on Fifth Avenue.

The snow fell heavily outside and it was hard to get a cab, so I requested a car service which picked me up in twenty minutes. The Lincoln Town Car was sleek and black, but hampered by an inch of snow which frosted the windows and snapped at my heels as I crossed the pavement and shut the door behind me. The biting pinch was replaced by a soothing calm due to the heated interior and leather seats, and I gave the driver the address as he took to the streets and looked out of the frosted window, grateful to be out of the eye of the storm.

When the car pulled up to the street, the snowstorm had died down but the layer of frost persisted. I thanked the driver and paid him in cash before entering one of the gay bars on the row.

For a winter crowd, it was still full: there were those who used the winter as an excuse to bare their flesh, tickled pink from the cold. They danced on podiums with poles, or groups of three or more congregated at the bar. Everyone was cold, but they still dressed fantastically for New Yorkers: no matter your income budget, they still tried to outdo one another in a decidedly American fashion.

Drinks were paid for with tips in the jar; bodies pounded to the groove on the hardwood floors, wet with the soaked footsteps of those who had trudged through the snow to get here; there were those who were strictly looking; others who were on the prowl. I stood at the bar, silently wishing I could order a hot beverage. I had yet to try eggnog, though plenty of people seemed content to drink alcoholic beverages. No doubt readying their livers for Christmas, only a fortnight away.

Here in this crowd, I was a nobody. There was nothing to distinguish me from anybody else, except besides my British nose and unusually composed demeanour in a cramped, packed club. Nearly an hour had passed already, and remaining stiff and unsmiling in a crowd full of people who glanced at me with interest, then looked away, was soon getting old. I had social grace under pressure, and was neutrally polite to strangers, but situated among a bar full of strangers presented yet a similar premise for me not terrible dissimilar to when I was in California’s gay bars.

I didn’t encourage a welcome, barely acknowledged a glance and stayed silent in what was perhaps my only social failure in life I had not been groomed for.

I did not grow up around others, in an estate larger than most small towns and did not happen upon instances in which I would communicate with errant passersby.

My travels throughout the world were ripe with opportunity, yet I felt awkward somehow posturing myself to be open to social camaraderie. If one thing was instilled into my sister and I since birth, it was to keep one to oneself.

To be honest, I didn’t mind being in a crowd full of people I didn’t know. I didn’t have to remember titles of peerage, hierarchies of ancient English heraldry or take comment on goose hunting or debutante balls. It was easier, I decided, blending into the background where nobody knew me.

Of course, it was one thing for a titled English youth to have moved across the Pacific and set up an almost bohemian lifestyle of art and literature while living in a triplex penthouse that would house most of the homeless camping in Central Park.

And even amid the throngs of well-dressed, handsome men that crowded the bar that night, with their strong American accents and typically boisterous chatter which spoke of achievement and money but also fashion - miles away from my true home, I felt like this could be it. Alone just like the woman who wrote  _ Eat, Pray, Love _ , I felt content.

This particular mindset triggered perhaps the most arousing grin I had managed that evening, somewhere between a pout and a smirk, and it was in this instance that I noticed someone looking at me from across the room.

It was typical for people to lock eyes with me, only to glance away as though they never had, but this guy kept his gray eyes on me long enough for me to concede that he had passed that particular perversion of checking out my physical attributes and had actually started to  _ observe _ me. In the rare instances I picked up on this phenomenon I would brush it aside with a casual demeanour, but I found myself staring back at this guy. He occupied a bar stool where he sat with his legs spread apart, wearing a grey shirt underneath a leather jacket and gave me an errant smirk. As he turned away and took a drink of his Budweiser, the smile he gave to the comrade opposite to him in response to some perceived joke made him laugh out loud, drowned out by the tempo of techno but revealing a mouth full of sharp incisors making his smile more bigger than might usually be expected.

Emboldened by his attitude but by no means so to come over and talk to him, I was taken aback by how long I stared afterward and excused myself to nobody in particular when I stopped by the bathrooms. The line was a mile long when I had checked ten minutes ago, but thankfully it was much shorter now.

In a cloud of cologne and preppy shirts, I waited as the line slowly filed, where the exiting gentlemen would take stock of those waiting as though we were models waiting to be interviewed, standing stock still for their perusal.

I pushed open the black door, expecting to be deluged in a mass of patrons but to my surprise the cubicles were all still locked bar one, newly taken by a guy who hadn’t chosen to buddy up with someone inside, for, from what the sounds of it, was very rapid lovemaking for those who couldn’t be bothered taking someone home with a taxi.

When I passed the row of cubicles, I saw a number of hand basins before a wide mirror and opposite, a number of urinals where men jostled for space, bodies pushed tight against each other as everyone tried to share a urinal already occupied, either in their haste to pee or their eagerness to see.

Before I could make a decision, my bladder thought for me, and when the only urinal I saw became available, I took it before anyone else could, where a number of sighs and slights from the couples who shared around me came from as I unzipped my fly and tried not to focus on the eyes that might be wavering, the hands that would be fumbling, the mouths that would be wondering.

When that stream of urine finally arced, I privately collapsed in peace for it was my finest moment to perform under pressure. More so when the urinal beside me became free and perhaps in my relief, I glanced up to see the guy who had watched me earlier from across the room, and barely turned away in time when I glanced down involuntarily at his crotch, where his hands were already unbuttoning the fly of his jeans, the fabric of his black briefs showing plainly through. His bulge was more than apparent.

I turned back to my own activity, finished up and turned to the sinks behind me, rinsing my hands cold though my body was shaking in the heat that coursed through me like a triple-shot of vodka. I had been no more paralysed than when I had come across the similar incident with Steve back in California, but here I felt the heat just as stronger, with only a moment’s glance more to confirm what I was privately wondering myself.

I didn’t give myself any time to linger, so when I headed back through the corridor and into the pounding tempo of the bar, it became immediately apparent to me the urge that was itching in my loins, like a rope too tightly coiled that strains against the confines.

From the depths of my bed-ridden sorrow to being flung into this moshpit where the only thing I could think about was  _ sex _ , I turned around to head back down that same corridor, dark but for the occasional illumination of a million bright colours from the strobe, and when I saw his leather jacket and tight jeans forming a well built frame, he noticed me watching him, leaned on the wall to let others pass and grinned, the heat rushing through me like a tidal wave.

Lips slightly parted, my heartbeat going a million miles a minute for not in as many years would I have dreamed of doing this - I came up to him close, breathed in the glorious scent of his cologne and hoped that the look I gave him conveyed precisely the arousal he had caused in me so deep.

He led me through the steamy masses, packed so tightly that my shoes stuck more than once on drinks spilled on the dance floor. I noticed his firm jaw, his strong frame and utter calm despite what I had wordlessly proposed, and though the anxiety rang through me like a church bell on a Sunday morning, the other elements in my hormones were telling me otherwise. At one point he turned and grinned, like the cheeky devil on my shoulder, as he ushered me outside, into the sleet and snow which blanketed us both, and hailed a taxi.

We slumped in those torn leather seats while we buckled our seatbelts, and I wondered what unbuckling his belt would be like before his mouth was on mine, hungrily consuming it with such finesse I felt my condition buckle when his hand ran up my leg, sending sparks to my groin as his palm lingered on my thigh, barely an inch from my crotch.

The cab ride was short and dropped us off in front of a building with a security guard who glanced once at the visitors and buzzed us inside. We walked across the well-maintained lobby, where I managed my comportment until he slapped my behind so suddenly I gasped in surprise and he merely smirked in amusement.

We entered the elevator where he proceeded to flatten me against the steel rail not a nanosecond after the doors had closed, possessing my mouth with a delicacy as he ran his tongue across mine and sweetened my lips with his. He tasted of stale alcohol and cigarettes.

He led me out onto an open-plan living room, with a master kitchen and well-built dining table on one side and a high-tech entertainment system facing a set of sectional leather couches. He showed me into the bedroom, spartan in furnishings but modern in design as the door closed seamlessly and silent behind him.

He spoke in a raspy voice, but perhaps that was the blood pounding in my ears. “You don’t have any objections?”

“None at all,” I replied, watching his astute face barely concealing a wide grin. I watched as he tore off his jacket and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a thick set of muscles fronted by visible abs on his navel. His biceps spoke of serious gym maintenance and I briefly wondered how much time one had to put in to achieve such physical perfection.

He was so brilliantly handsome, with such perfect pecs and abs that I reached my hand out to touch them. If my hand had been burned I would not have noticed.

He seemed to be restraining himself, with what was a large amount of self control as he bared his teeth and inhaled deeply when I took off my jacket and shirt.

“Get on your knees,” he growled, and when he unbuckled his belt, I did as he said.

He unbuttoned his fly and lowered the waistband of his black boxer briefs so his cock could jut through, big as it was and steaming at the head with visible liquid dripping from the head.

“Suck it,” he commanded.

If I had been shocked by being dominated so, it was nothing to the roar of fury and the hand on my neck which surged his cock further into my throat. It was bliss to be in the service of this man, but madness by which his pleasure hurt my throat.

His eyes widened and he groaned and leaned his head back in ecstasy as he shuddered into my mouth, twitching as I felt him unload massively down my throat.

My facial muscles could barely function for how jaw locked I was, with his massive member jammed down my throat and clogging the flow of oxygen. When he finally did pull out, I had to force myself not to flex my jaw and massaged it with my hands instead.

He dragged me up and forced me over the bed. I landed face first in blankets while he tugged my jeans and underwear down, giving me a hefty spank to my ass. “Don’t move.”

I breathed in the scent of his freshly washed cotton sheets, hearing the opening and slamming of drawers while I waited, hesitantly might I add, when I heard a ripping sound and felt his erection force my rear cheeks to part, the feel of latex chief among them. He smeared slippery liquid about my area while I lay still in shock, for hadn’t he just come only seconds ago?

“This will hurt a bit,” he rasped, and plunged into me with all the force of an astronaut planting the American flag on the moon.

“Aah!” I screamed, for the first thrust was only a harbinger to the second, somehow plunging deeper and harder. I could hear him gathering approval and speed as he placed his hands on my hips as he forced himself further into me.   
“Ugh… no!” I shouted, but this didn’t make him hesitate. The pent up pleasure I had felt from the residual taste in my mouth more than compensated for this. “More!”

It went like this for a few minutes, as I lay going in and out of consciousness with the searing pain that shuddered through me as his pace became faster, the pain came quicker and in sharper bursts. He was slippery with sweat when he was done with me, coming with such force he threw his head back and groaned in ecstasy, ejaculating into me full force as his cock twitched inside me, forever staining me with the results of his perversion.

As he pulled out, I lay in a semi-aware state, my lower limbs locked up and unable to move. My whole body was racked with pain, my mind working overtime to process the healing I would surely need to accompany this. I could hear him wiping himself, then, when the dreaded moment came when I raised myself in an attempt to stand, knowing that he expected me to leave, he said “Don’t. Stay here the night,” and pushed me back onto the covers. It was a few moments before I realised he was gone, with only the light of a trillion skyscrapers filtering through the blinds to illuminate my grief and fantasy.

I slept the night under the covers, comforted by the warmth of the sheets but assuaged, in an attempt to hide my feelings of abandonment otherwise so new to me.

At some point during the night I had visited the bathroom down the hall, which at a quick glance revealed that it was not exclusively used by him, from the considerable lack of anything personal. When I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, I saw shades of red on my body amid love bites on my neck, my hair in disarray and my skin paler than usual. When I sat on the toilet in an attempt to relieve the pain on my bowels, I was shaken to find traces of blood on the toilet paper.

There was silence in the apartment, which seemed to echo throughout the distant corridors as I made my way back into the bedroom. I collected my clothes and changed with a great deal of unease, checking the time on my cell phone as barely five a.m. I called a cab service to pick me up after verifying my address on Google Maps, turned up my collar to hide the worst of the love bites on my neck and made my way quietly through the apartment to the foyer, pressing the call button for the elevator. While I waited, I noticed a pad on an end table where he kept the home phone, and hesitated before picking up the pen and writing my number.

I entered the elevator when it arrived, nodded politely to the security guard in the lobby who pretended not to notice my ill-disguised gait and greeted the taxi at the kerb before wondering how obvious it was that I was doing the ‘walk of shame’.


	21. Sister

Back in the scent of my own bed, which needed the sheets washed, I had only a few hours to sleep before the roar of New York blared through the window I had opened to let some of the air out. The sunrise over the city had peaked and shone brightly for all inhabitants, and I sat at the dining table watching the sky turn multitudes of hues, sipping at strong black coffee I had made from an espresso machine conveniently tucked away behind a kitchen alcove.

There would be time for pondering on last night’s events, certainly taking action of the kind that prevented me from falling prey to any illness or malady printed on brochures of the safe sex variety, but instead I picked up the phone to call long-distance, having thought about the exchange for a while and deciding that, just as with so many other things in my life that had brought about in me a change, this too would be evidence of my stepping out of the norm my regalities demanded.

It rang twice before I heard the clipped, aristocratic tones of the young woman who answered.

“Good morning,” answered Grace, my sister. “What a pleasant surprise.”

I stopped for a moment, considering what to say and whether with any degree of warmth. Since our family traveled often, we barely saw one another - and certainly not for any gatherings at which family was expected to reunite and foster feelings of love towards each other. Unless there was a birth, marriage or death at which the family was to attend on behalf of a close relative or member of the peerage, we were absent from each other’s lives.

“I hope I haven’t called too early,” I glanced at the time on my Rolex, discarded on the coffee table, and read it as 7.30 am.

“Not at all,” she replied. “I can’t bring myself to sleep in when everyone else is awake.”

It was so oddly comforting to converse with perhaps the only person who knew what it was like being raised in a strictly oppressive, conservative household. We acknowledged the duties expected of us as heirs to an Earl and Countess, and while we played the part perfectly, we suffered any misgivings in silence, especially from each other. We understood that while we were stifled, we were better off than most.

There was a silence that was palpable, for in the rare moments we engaged in conversation when we met in person, there was little to say about one’s health (if you weren’t on life support, you weren’t suffering), one’s living situation (the only residence of permanency was the estate, to be called back at whim if dire circumstances demanded) or one’s activities (staying out of the limelight in today’s tech & fame generation required as much effort as trying to get into it).

“I assume you called me for some other reason than to check that I rise early in the morning?” came my sister’s reply, clipped with her upper-crust British accent.

“I wanted to know how you’re spending your holidays,” I asked, unperturbed by the comment. Superior she sounded, but it was more of an indifference towards attitudes that presumed to usurp her position. So, superior, really.

“Well, I’ve decided to stay in London over New Year’s Eve,” she replied, slightly stilted from the personal question. She took a deep breath, seeming to snowball her confidence at talking so intimately. “I would’ve traveled back to the estate, but I decided to watch the fireworks display at the Big Ben from my balcony.”

Grace resided in a sprawling penthouse triplex atop Wellington Court, with views of Hyde Park. She ventured out rarely, preferring to stay indoors and published a weekly column in British  _ Vogue _ under a pseudonym, discussing issues of timeless elegance and living, the social equivalent of Miss Manners in America.

“How about you?” she asked.

“I’m staying in New York,” I said, which merited no reply. “There’s a celebration in Times Square…”

It was here that the conversation fizzled out. There were a few more questions exchanged, along the lines of what you might say to someone sitting next to you at a bus stop about nonsensical minutia like the weather. By the time I pressed the disconnect button, I felt isolated in a way I hadn’t bothered to face before.

It was one thing to be alone in a city where nobody knew my name, but another to have someone who was meant to know you inside and out but proffered small displays of interest in what was really supposed to matter in matters of life.

I was used to the absence of emotion and keeping a distance from my family, which in some households was necessary because of either abusive and/or divorced parents, but with mine it was elementary: we kept no close contact because there was nothing to be said outside of what was our regimented fate. I was to become Earl one day, while my sister would marry someone of equal peer rank to continue the bloodline.

I shook my heads to clear the twinge of doubt and uncertainty that had threatened to resurface, and walked into the living room with my cup of coffee, looking out over the city of Manhattan blanketed with snow. There had to be a place out there for me. There had to be something, somewhere… was I always searching, endlessly?

These melancholic thoughts aside. The task at hand demanded fulfilling, and so I grabbed the keys off the counter, dressed warmly in a cashmere lined coat with gloves and a scarf and took the elevator down to the lobby and hailed a taxi headed into midtown.

Where would I go in this wintry weather? There were plenty of eating establishments, though all were booked to full with reservations made months in advance. A walk in Central Park to clear my head was out of the question, more so when I realised the spread of land back home that also would be choked with snowflakes in every visible crevice and rut. The grip of depression grew tighter, and while I sat in the cab’s back seat watching Christmas shoppers bundled tight stepping precariously over gutters filled with slush, I retreated from the frosted window and exhaled one long plume of frosted breath, wishing the cab had better heaters. I knew I should’ve worn warmer clothes, but I just had to get out of the apartment in due haste.

The cabbie reminded me that the fare was running even if I didn’t know where to go and wanted him to drive me around aimlessly, cautioning me that passengers like me were suspect and he expected a tip for the uncommon service, but I laid my head back on the filthy headrest and closed my eyes. I didn’t care about the money; it was ever-present and hadn’t solved a single one of my problems, besides, of course… well, there came the twinge of guilt, for in a city full of homeless people huddled over barrel fires in alleyways, curled up on park benches or in abandoned cars, standing in line at a soup kitchen waiting for their solitary bowl of food that day… it made me sick to my stomach to think that here I was, having arrived in the land of opportunity, in a city where people did anything to rise higher than their peers, to sacrifice anything to stay richer and gain power - and yet I had all of that, privately at least, and I complained I didn’t have a purpose in life. I had my purpose: to be an Earl. Some people went their whole life trying and never reaching their aspirations, however modest. And here I was, with everything up front, in exchange for fulfilling responsibilities by the end which damn well secured my life till the end.

Once I became Earl, the family name rested on my shoulders. It was my responsibility to ensure that I bring no shame to the title. In exchange, I was instructed by my father prior to him granting me access to the five hundred million dollar trust fund set up for me that I stay out of the private eye, do nothing to involve myself or the family in a scandal, and keep abreast of functions which required my presence.

Militant, regimented responsibility, all the time. But fun for the meantime, right?

It was the cab driver’s retort which awakened me to my senses, that he insist I pick a destination or his supervisor would get suspicious. Before I could comment on the ludicrousy afoot - that money earned was still money earned if for slightly odd reasons regardless and who hasn’t needed a silent cab trip to nowhere to catch their bearings? - I glanced at the cell phone display which listed a number of bars to visit in New York.

“The Soho House,” I picked one at random.

The cabbie sighed and performed an illegal U-turn, remarking “You could’ve just said that from the beginning.”


	22. Cover blown

Soho House was in the meatpacking district of Manhattan, adequately named for the industrial buildings that spawned in the area. It was eclectic and bohemian, perfect for my inner creative spirit. There were more than a few hipsters near the kerb, but as I took the elevator up to lounge, I was surprised to see the mix of people congregating at the bar, sitting around tables clutching hot eggnog or braving the winds out on the balcony, wearing fashionably aged and ripped threads.

Leather and hardwood floors and stacks of books perched precariously atop shelves and framed portraits in black and white. It was a haven for artists and bohemians alike, with conversation in a hubbub amid the clinking of root beer and fifteen-dollar cocktails, anything for this crowd to be achingly hip and in style.

Snow fell outside the windows while warmth set the crowd subdued and happy. It was a casual atmosphere, where one could pen the American novel in a corner while engaging in the night’s festivities. This close to New Years, it was close to packed but I could still make my way through the space and to the bar, ordering something vague and mildly alcoholic, perching on a leather stool and watching the barman pour my drink while taking in the multitudes of brightly coloured bottles on the mirrored shelves.

I thanked the bartender and sipped my drink, watching the separate crowds engage in conversation and socialise separately, wondering not for the first time how marvellously my parents had set me up for discussing politics with members of parliament, but mixing with others below my station they had missed that lesson.

I couldn’t tell if it was because I was so openly inquisitive to a bar full of creatives touting their successes so breezily as only Americans can do, though in private I was sick to my stomach imagining the cringeworthy responses that would be going on in my head if I so much as mentioned my excellent academic record or fascination with extracurricular activities involving physical labor, that some sentient soul took it upon themselves to approach me and offer a handshake and hello.

I soon found myself sitting in one of the booths, sitting precariously on my seat as they shared sentiments about the difficulty of procuring part-time work that allowed time to paint or write, while complaining that the effort required to pay bills stunted brain growth in some way and reduced their ability to produce the real art.

Soon enough they turned to me in turn and asked what my role was in the electric grid of Manhattan, and while I managed to express that I was ‘perusing my options’ while ‘living upstate’, they took my reluctance to share personal information and inadequate replies regarding my passions or career to conclude that I was unemployed (or working somewhere abysmal not worth mentioning) and had little direction in my life (horror story for working Manhattans, who knew that without some plan to pay three thousand a month for a cramped co-op meant taking the subway back to Long Island or worse to live with one’s parents for life).

Having opted not to correct their assumptions about me, especially since they heard my upper-class British accent and saw my tailored clothes and assumed I was putting it all on as an act to hide some shame of failure about other goals, I lapsed into silence and excused myself without any complaints on their part to buy another drink from the bartender.

Glancing around at the crowd at large, I might conceive on some part that my unwillingness to communicate beyond polite pleasantries might be one of the reasons why others found me shy or dull, but I had no notion of what expounding upon my interests and achievements could merit me. In typical New Yorker style, for every comment interjected into a conversation there was an element of me-me-me:

“You have a dog? I have a prized chihuahua. I took him to the show and won first prize.”

“I’ve never been to Fiji. My husband and I stayed in the Bahamas at his parents’ mansion. We ate lobster and swam on the beach.”

There was needless information interjected into every sentence, designed to upstage the other person with such shameless unsubtle that I was surprised it was the norm: it was American. Pride for all pursuits was the cultural fascination.

Unlike at my housewarming party, where I had little need to boast of myself - Jessica saw to that, informing everyone I was a privately wealthy, gay foreigner who kept to myself - here I was an individual of unknown means and talents, but still considered to be not unattractive, with portly posture and a calm, composed manner.

After an hour more, I gave up and was soon ensconced in the back seat of a cab. It was an experience with which I was slowly gaining familiarity. New Yorkers always seemed to be in cabs in movies, which was natural given the daily gridlock.

I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket and wondered who it could be. For a moment, I realised it had to be the guy I had left my number for, and flipped my cell phone open with a smile.

“Hello?”

“You sound happy,” came a vaguely familiar voice. “Am I interrupting something?”

It was Will - the super successful partner at his own law firm.

“Not at all,” I replied, still tinged with the idea of a hot man. “I’m heading back home after a night on the town.”

“It’s only nine p.m.,” he replied, and I checked my Rolex to confirm. “How about coming over to mine for dinner?”

“Dinner?” I asked, surprised.

“Yeah. I was thinking of making a little something. Interested?”

I hesitated, before remembering tonight’s interludes. “Sure. Where do you live?”

Will lived atop an apartment building on Park Avenue, with a balcony that overlooked the stars and a monochrome design statement similar to my own. He met me in the foyer, brushed off my apologies that I hadn’t had time to change and insisted I looked great.

We moved into the kitchen, where he seemed to master the culinary utensils as he stirred a pot and served stew with macaroni cheese. We sat at the dinner table and I breathed in his masculine cologne as he served me my dish and poured wine for us both, something expensive no doubt but luckily, he knew I could not be impressed.

“It smells excellent,” I remarked, watching the steam rise and taking a tentative bite, but it was perfectly hot. “Mmm.”

He grinned and asked, “Where do you usually eat out?”

“Home,” I replied. “I don’t eat out very often except to try something new.”

“You’re not a silver-spoon and white-tablecloth kind of guy?” he asked.

I smiled. “It’s not necessary to enjoy a meal.”

I saw the knowing look in his eye and felt warmed by his attention in me. He was urbane, wore a well-cut suit and was completely at ease in my presence.

“So how is being a partner in one of the most successful law firms in the city?” I asked.

He grinned broadly. “You’ve heard of my reputation?”

“It must be very exhausting running between courtrooms,” I remarked, taking a sip of my wine. “Spending hours debating with the opposition. Convincing juries.”

“You ever been in a courtroom?”

I couldn’t tell if it was a loaded question. “Not in this century,” I added dryly.

“It’s great,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “It’s a better adrenaline boost than working out.”

“Do you find time for that?” I asked, trying to hide the mischievous spark in my eyes and taking a bite. 

“Always,” he said, smiling. “This is New York, after all.”

“I’ve yet to meet someone upstate who doesn’t have a personal trainer.”

“You don’t?” he asked, with nonchalance.

“It hasn’t become a priority,” I replied. “Although a balance between all the eating I’ve been doing…”

With a sudden lurch I realised I was tipsy and had engaged too much information about myself.

“Excuse me,” I said, smiling and rising from the table. “The wine’s going to my head. I’m babbling.”

“You OK?” he asked, actually looking concerned.

“May I use your bathroom?”

“Down the hall, on the second right.”

I walked across the hardwood floor, past the granite kitchen on one side and the modernist living room with tiered windows looking out over the glittering cityscape. The guest bathroom was functionally sparse and after I had washed my hands I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. My face was a little red and my hair askew from the snow and winds outside. What had the wine done to me? Why was I babbling like an idiot?

I returned to the open plan dining-cum-living room and sat opposite Will to take up my fork. I took a deep swig from the glass of water I asked for and hoped the insensitive emotional crap that was coming from my mouth would soon stop.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice a little more caring, having noticeably lost its lustre.

I nodded. “I’m sorry this night wasn’t exactly what you intended.”

He shrugged his shoulders, an easy gesture by someone who didn’t expect something in return and smiled. “It’s OK.”

We sat in silence for a moment, before I did something instinctively I didn’t think I even wanted to do in that moment. He stood when I rose.

“Thank you for the dinner. It was very nice,” I added.

He smirked, his eyes crinkling. He really was quite handsome.

He leaned in to kiss me and I let him, his soft lips brushing against mine in what I knew would be a more aggressive manner had he not maintained his civility. I apologised again for getting too drunk, and he was surprised that I had even brought up the manner.

“That’s no problem. I thought that wine was a bit weak, to be honest.” he replied.

“I haven’t drunk that much in ages,” I admitted. “Only a glass or two at a bar now and again.”

He drew his head back as though trying to scrutinise me and chortled a little. “You’re a lot different from meeting you at the apartment. You’re very… rigid. It was good to see you relaxed; you should drink more.”

I laughed at this. “I’ll consider it. I found the welcoming party a little awkward, to be honest.”

“It’s your type of environment though, isn’t it?” he asked, his eyebrow cocked.

I hesitated. How did he know that? “Sometimes being at attention can be a bit tiring. Especially in Manhattan… everyone’s very attentive to behaviour and status.”

“It’s the same in the UK, though, right?” he asked, placing a hand on his flawless granite countertop. “You must’ve had to deal with a lot of those setups.”

I smiled. “I shouldn’t think so. If you came to my apartment, you’d see a lot of books and little else. I’m a very comfortable homebody at the best of times. I don’t enjoy the party scene that so many people aspire to climb.”

“That’s true of you Brits,” he grinned naughtily. “But here, the only thing money can’t buy is a title.”

He knew. They all knew. Will didn’t even seem to consider that it was a secret.

“I know, I know,” Will said, mirroring my thoughts. “You Brits don’t talk about money and position and all that stuff. But we New Yorkers thrive on accomplishment.”

“I’m no more than a trustafarian in these circles,” I mentioned. “I can’t imagine why - “

Will smiled, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’re cute. You don’t notice all the attention you’re getting since you’ve been here.”

Images flashed through my mind, frenzied blurs chief of which was what Manhattan society would think of the  _ Earl’s son _ holding court as one of the most eligible and desirable young gay men for all to see and court with neither money nor power able to shift the English moor underneath his feet.

“I have to go. Excuse me,” I headed for the elevator.

“Are you OK?”

“I - yes.” I turned to him and managed a pleasant expression. “I think the wine’s given me a headache. I’ll have to lie down.”

He hesitated, not sure how to interpret my signals. Then he smiled indulgently.

“Stay here. I have a guest bedroom made,” he replied.

“I don’t want to impose,” I said, liking him greatly for the courtesy.

“I insist. Stay,” he smiled, and I did.

He showed me to the guest bedroom, a king-size laid with starched white sheets, a tall window displaying the glittering cityscape and a club chair and bookcase adjacent to an adjoining ensuite with a full length mirror over a porcelain wash basin and, opposite, a rain shower inlaid with marble tiles.

“There are some pajamas in the drawers,” he said, “If you wear pajamas.”

I grinned and he held up his hand, mock defeated. “OK, OK. See you in the morning.”

The faded, hued images of my parents came into view as the dream slid out of focus from within my grasp of sentient reality. I heard their voices - the high, sharp lilting accent that was my mother’s, the stern regality that belonged to my father. My sister’s accent could cut glass, and mine a little less.

The sweeping moor I called home - and would own someday, along with the title of Earl flashed in my head. The smell of fresh air, pine trees and the fantastic aroma of baking bread that wafted up from the kitchens.

All these years of training, of learning from a very young age how important privacy was to a family and I had abandoned it in favour of pursuing self, over duty.

The Queen would not approve.


	23. Facing fear

If by some chance it had escaped my notice that my peerage had become public knowledge, the ensuing cavalcade of invitations, both in print and by email, confirmed my worst fears. Charities wanted me at their tables, socialites invited me to their parties, and corporates offered me business lunches in the hopes of scoring me as a client, a consultant or even a shareholder. My title, money and breeding spoke of status, purchasing power and influence. Most of all, my privacy engendered curiosity, envy and lust for such affiliation. 

And as for my private life? Where Jessica had roused interest as a privately wealthy, upper class Brit of indiscriminate position and perspective, I was now known publicly as heir to the title of Earl, estate to which stood a sprawling home and lands spanning for miles. I would never need to work, for my funds were near limitless and supported by several stable investments in real estate, where my income exceeded expenditures. My connections spread through peerage and Parliament, to the extent where I had been host to a formal dinner by the Royal family. Finally, as a private citizen without monogamous ties, social affiliations or public statements nor recriminations, I was the ultimate fish to hook with no known bait. 

With Christmas around the corner, it was a preamble to the public interest that would soon follow. Jessica had betrayed my trust, something I didn't think she was capable of. it had blindsided me, to the extent where i wondered to which level would she stop at to achieve social status. I was only a pawn to her, for her to climb the rungs of Manhattan, where she no doubt found it overwhelming competing with a host of yummy mummies, billionaire’s wives and supermodels more beautiful than she. She was no different than those attempting to scale a ladder which never seemed to be high enough.

What was I to make of this? This influx of attention that was so sought after by many, would be anathema to someone in my position. with the same accordance that old money shunned fame, new money sought it in a grab for world attention and affirmation, no better than Kim Kardashian or Donald Yrump, trying for legitimacy where it wasn't already inherent in their legacy.

I thought of contacting Jessica, to accuse her of her infamy, but it would solve no crises and only call for more attention, a situation not totally dissimilar to the one I had faced where Tyler in california had spread false rumours about me in order to boost his status.

But could I up and move again every time I was presented with scandal? Not only could I come to expect a certain undercurrent of envy from the people with whom I congregated, but in today’s generation it was nearly impossible to avoid the avalanche of information shot at us from smartphones, facebook, satellites and news channels. It was advantageous to be known, but even if one wanted to remain private, by a manner of normalcy everyone was slowly becoming known to the general public. This shift in generation had been what had prompted my father to allow my sister a position at British Vogue. Where once the standard for privacy had been anonymity, now it was circumspect for one to do nothing in one’s life but hide, marry and die. Everyone was expected to take a formal position once revealed to the public. My father had his place in peerage, my mother supported him in various dinners at which royals were present, and my sister had only reinforced her position as a lady of breeding, a modern woman to whom one might consider good breeding, impeccable manners and a career for the mere image of sensibility in the twenty first century. Even the queen herself had modernised.

It was quickly becoming clear that no matter where I went, my past would follow. where I came from meant a lot to these people and changed the playing ground upon which I stood. I could not expect to integrate into a culture where I meant so much, nor could I hope for individual contribution where society had pasted their projections onto me. It was high time I decided what I wanted, stuck with it and made it work, both for the sake of my happiness and the end to my indecision. Who would I be? That was the real question. Whatever my circumstances, I would make it work. The only problem was, I had responsibilities to other people back home. changing would require a shift in mindset(s).

Of course, it had not failed to come to my father’s attention that I had been seen gallivanting around the party scene, indulging in the company of socialites and hangers-on who clamoured nearby, reputed to be a highly sought after bachelor in a Manhattan triplex penthouse and rumoured to be dating, according to sources, many men including Will gardner, principal partner at haughty law firm Gardner Lockhart.

My position as a partying, principled bachelor on the prowl was complete.

The letter had arrived just as I was browsing the Daily Mail, during which I was wondering which Xmas haunt to visit in lieu of staying in Manhattan. The handsome stranger whom I had encountered downtown at a bar had not called since, and I wanted to be alone, but it would seem my correspondence would not stop, including the one written in stylish calligraphy on perfect parchment, which instructed me to cease my public activities, return to the estate and begin settling down to find a wife to marry. It had not escaped his notice that my interest lay in men, but that my duty was to the family and to the estate. I had damaged quite enough of my reputation as it was.

This came as a complete shock to me, having previously envisioned my life as a series of introspections as I travelled across the world. True, I knew my responsibilities entered into it, but never before had I seriously entertained the idea that I would have to stay publicly committed to a woman, bring forth children as my heirs and stay resolute in the face of overwhelming fascination with the wider world. I knew my place - to stay out of trouble - but now that the time had come, i realised i was not ready. I was not willing to do my duty.

i composed a letter with equal vehemence, telling my father in what was perhaps my first tone of defiance and insult to his intelligence by demanding that I be sought equal to his patronage, that I wished to pursue matters outside of the estate and did not wish to enter into a binding contract whereby I would be denied of all my earthly pleasures. I had no reason to upset the family, nor inhibit my heraldry, but it was not my sole goal for living that I should spend the rest of my life in seclusion, married to a woman i did not love and birthing children out of duty, for the sake of elders who propagated the line out of nothing more than keeping up appearances. I was quite drunk when I did this, for the fortitude of saying such dastardly and binding words.

It would come as no surprise then, but a great shock in my sober state to be sure, that the return letter comprised an invitation to my own home, written in the hand of my father, as though I was a guest, not a member of the family in which I had grown up. my cousin, a distant relative in every sense of the word, would be arriving in a fortnight for a dinner I was to be present at. it was stated, in words no less than discriminatory against the valor of my person, that if i refused, I was to be disinherited as his son, his heir and to my fortune which held my future. I had no choice. i booked a first-class flight on Virgin airlines, lightly packed my suitcase and took a taxi to JFK airport, headed home.


	24. Home again

Yorkshire was freezing, with snow falling as I glanced out of the tinted windows of the black Mercedes benz which drove me home. a thin layer of ice had settled over the expansive grounds, icicles hung from trees and mist hung over the estate like a pallor. it was a gloom to match the pit in my stomach.

The gravel crunched as the driver helped me with my suitcases, handing them to Carson as he greeted me and welcomed me back. I proffered a small smile, asked if my father had yet arrived.

“His lordship has not yet arrived,” said the butler. “But he insists you dine with Mr. Spencer alone.”

Mr Spencer, or the Hon. Alistair Spencer, was the distant cousin on my father’s side who would inherit the title of earl if I was to be removed of my privileges of peerage. Since my father had no sons beside me, it would slip through Grace’s hands and right into my cousin’s, right where he wanted them to be. Alistair was hardly the perfect fit to be earl; he was puffed up and pompous but filled with innate british pride that led him to believe he was in the right each and every time. He was insufferable and demanding, but would take the opportunity if preferred. I had to be wary of him.

I retired to my room, where I was glad to see it had not changed one iota. the four-poster bed was laid with green-and-white pinstripe sheets, covers pulled back invitingly, and when I emerged from the shower half an hour later, I glimpsed the clothes set out on the bedspread before I stared up into the chalk-white face of Thomas, my valet. His smirk drew wonder at my dripping wet appearance, but I couldn't help but feel a stir of surprise in his approval. There was something beneath the veneer, the polished facade but I couldn't tell what. Had all the staff been frantic with worry wondering if their heir was to be deposed? Was this dinner a showdown between those set to inherit?

He dressed me nimbly, but made no attempt to touch me or remark in slights about how he found my body. By his absence I did not grow wanting, but I found it puzzling all the same. When I was dressed for success, in somber clothes befitting my stature, I proceeded downstairs and was announced promptly by Carson as ‘Lord Daniel’.

Having never earned a style more pleasing than ‘Mr’, I was not surprised to see Alistair stand to greet me with a moue of disapproval on his face. He was outfitted with such over the top regalia I would’ve laughed, had I not been so serious. He took his seat and laid his napkin across his lap with a flourish, as footmen delivered our plates and poured wine for him and water for me before retreating to the sidelines. Carson watched by the bureau, standing behind me, watching for any hint of danger. Even as I was threatened and Alistair in for the kill, so were we British at heart. Any repudiation would come quietly and without conflict, for we were first and foremost raised to be gentlemen.

“Uncle Charles tells me that he’s been experiencing some difficulty with you,” said Alistair, spearing a bite with his fork and glancing over at me as though I was a precocious child, despite the fact that we were near equal in age. “That you refuse, despite repeated insistence, to come home to the estate and tend to your duties like a good boy.”

“I cannot imagine what possessed my father to invite you here and instruct me like a servant about what is to be done, Alistair,” I rebuked. “But I can assure you this, I have no intention of removing myself as his heir.”

“You’ve shamed the family, you’re a failure in his eyes, not just ours,” Alistair leaned in. “It is no secret that you prefer to run about clubhouses with strange men. Now you want to take over in his stead! What contributions in the past years could possibly accommodate such a shift in duties?

“You are not to be my replacement,” I said. “You were not raised to be heir, you have no idea of the kind of life this title demands, the responsibilities it demands.”

“The difference is, I am willing, whereas you are folly to your intuitions and your desires,” said Alistair. “Where your pedigree is polished, my name is unsullied, and as the next in line, I look far more likely to succeed the earl where you will flounder in his place.”

I retired to bed before he did; as steadfast as his ambition was, I would give him no satisfaction in admitting defeat. While I was more trained for the privilege, he would gladly undertake it, which meant a great deal more to my father now that he was aware of my hesitation. Taking the title of Earl and carrying with it its responsibilities was all that mattered to my father, and while it must've pained him to admit so, first and foremost he must pass the earldom to a worthy successor, even if his son was not suitable. Perhaps the only blot on my family's history to stain the name.

When I returned to my room, I found Thomas waiting inside, ready to undress me.

“You can go, Thomas,” I said, quite weary. “I won’t be needing you tonight.”

“Very good, sir,” said he, with an imperceptible smirk I had always delighted in, taken for granted, but nonetheless I ignored him as he closed the door with a snap.

After the laborious task of undressing myself and removing my finery and cufflinks upon a club chair, I wrapped my bare and unrouged self in a dressing gown, slipped on a pair of slippers and ran a hand through my tousled hair. I sat on the opposite chair, listening to the logs crackle in the fire, watching as the rain misted the windowpanes and the howl of the wind like a ghoul across the moor. The mist covered all and created an unwelcome haze upon which to look out upon the estate and its grounds.

Uninspired, I left the sanctuary of my room and headed down the hall, austere paintings and bold tapestries amid red carpeted floors and recessed hollows bare of vases or statues. This empty, lifeless estate flowed with my family’s blood, entirely regal yet dour in its presence. I wrapped myself up tighter amid the cold, trying to put thoughts into my head of the idea that Alistair would succeed my father as Earl and run the servants into a frenzy as they catered to his every need. He was particular to a fault, endlessly demanding and always finding fault, but he could spend hours talking of property tax and estate lease, all of which were essential to managing the income provided by the estate. If nothing else, he would prove to be a worthy successor to carry on the name, if a harsh lord under whom to work. He would more than fulfill the task set down by my elders.

I passed a corridor not unlike the others except for a mild change in decoration and temperature, noticing a door ajar and hearing rustling inside. No doubt Alistair was championing his win, writing to my father with perfect quill calligraphy to say it was as good as done. Despite my homely appearance, I strode up the corridor, feeling the warmth from what was surely the lit fireplace inside but couldn’t help glancing inside as I passed.

He was spread-eagled on his four poster, naked but for the striped socks on his legs which drooped over the edge, like his ample body. His eyes were closed and seemed to be half-asleep, in a prayer, when I saw a black figure sliver from between his legs and realised with a jolt of shock it was Thomas. Almost reverently Alistair placed his hands on Thomas’ shoulders and down he went, black hair slicked back and chalk-white face disappearing between Alistair’s thighs. He let out a soft moan as I heard other sounds not worth mentioning and retreated back from the door, down a corridor in a hurry and hid behind a plinth where a statue of armor stood lone. The knight held his sword in his hands, gazing mutely at me through his helmet, and I thought I needed a suit of armour about now to prevent the flood of emotions coursing deep through, like a steel hand tightly clutching my windpipe, preventing me breathing. Somehow in a manner of minutes, covered in sweat, I made it back to my bed, sheets pulled over my heads and wordless mumblings coming from my sleep. I heard the door turn in the night, but I had locked it, and there were no surprises when the visitor only called once.


	25. Bare for all to see

The ray of sunlight through the curtains was harsh, but all the same I showered and dressed myself. Stonily yet blearily I stared out onto the snow-capped landscape through the windows, settling into my clothes with a resolution I did not feel. There was only the pit of emptiness.

Where once I was sure that my duty was to the estate, that I could take Thomas as a secret lover no matter what wife or duties I held, the wool had been removed from my eyes. My father was feudalistic in almost every sense of the word; my mother, no better. Alistair would make a perfect fit for Earl in my place.

My nerves were frazzled with anxiety; I was shaking in the corridors as I descended the stairs. I could smell the bacon and eggs from the ajar door which led to the dining room, hear Carson’s gruff voice and Alistair’s impertinent own, his whine and babble audible over the silent footsteps of the servants hurrying to and fro.

This estate would be his kingdom, his rule would be harsh and his manner a perfect fit to ensure the continuity of the family’s line. He was the son my father never had.

As for me, I held my own through breakfast and nodded quietly when Alistair announced his plans for handling the estate. My father would be joining us shortly with the family lawyer to discuss the legalities of “abdicating” my position. As a private citizen, I would no longer be eligible to benefit from assets owned by, or income derived from, the family trust. My father turned his full attention to Alistair, who responded with a smile of his own, and I realised then and there the full impact of what I had agreed to. I was the black sheep of the family, with no home to call my own.

Since my arrival in New York, I had garnered attention as the eldest son of a wealthy Earl, privately educated and well brought up, reluctant to court attention and struggling to hide myself from the public eye.

Dethroned, penniless and without a cause to my name, public interest quickly waned when it became known to the upper echelons of society with whom I once congregated that I had absconded from familial rights by seeking a “normal life”.

In accordance with a culture of achievement, I was immediately shunned by those who only sought association with those who were rich, powerful or hereditary titled.

My homes across the world were sold, including furnishings, art and antiques I had collected along my travels, to be paid to the estate, minus any capital gains which were payable to me as an individual investor. I received the princely sum of five million dollars, returned to New York with the crushing weight of shame and responsibility, and to top it off, every person in my life abandoning me like the plague, as though my choice to live free was the equivalent of discarding material wealth to live in the Amazon. There were no calls, no letters of condolence.

I was on my own, without friends in high places, especially those who had once held claim to an attraction to me beyond the benefits of my lineage. Slinking away like shadows in the night, for every sunrise to mark me blearily, with bags under my eyes as I schlepped through Manhattan, looking for an apartment and a job, never before realising the full extent of how crushing and humiliating it was to persevere with nothing to my name, only shame. Those who knew me had long left, and those who had once shown interest disappeared, to their lofty heights where they looked down on one who would throw everything away at a crossroads for pursuit of the personal. There was no gain to be made, thought they, to abandon achievement, shun social identity and disinherit oneself from one of the largest fortunes in the Western world. I was infected, isolated and left to fester, among a community where everyone would kill to have what I once did - and shunned me for doing so.


	26. Working boy

I was exhausted, overworked and terribly downcast during my first year in New York. I moved into a post-war, brownstone condominium in the hub of midtown, not far from the offices of the property magazine where I had managed to finagle an interview after being rejected from so many offices. Where once my name opened doors, all I had to trade on was my well-bred etiquette and impeccable manners, not the least of which was my privately funded education at Oxford.

I worked eight till five, six days a week in a tiny cubicle office which provided little comfort and privacy in what was a crowded newsroom, buzzing with journalists yelling into phones, analysing market trends and attempting to stay ahead of the game. My job was to attend seminars and write up reports of ‘hot’ sales or declines which might otherwise be able to prove worthwhile in print, and after nine months in which my experience with property investment had become clear, I was promoted to an opinion piece in which readers submitted their property questions and I outlined, with clear references to tax and legal issues explained in a simple, no-nonsense way, how to avoid the worst of capital gains tax and increase gains otherwise in an unsteady, unstable environment. My co-workers quickly grew envious of me, for I had been hired on the sole merit of my interview skills and English education - and here I was, able to seamlessly sort through the uncertainty that was the property market and outline clearly to subscribers where they could do better.

I returned home most nights too exhausted to cook for myself, let alone put my feet up to relax. I had bought my apartment outright for a million dollars, leaving four to spend on basic furnishings, monthly maintenance expenses and invest in low-risk bonds. Living in Manhattan was expensive, even after taking the subway to work, wearing suits that cost half of what I used to spend on clothes alone and eating takeout or pre-packaged salads as an alternative to the luxe meals I had once enjoyed. My promotion had bumped up my salary to thirty-five thousand a year - nothing compared to the millions earned by head honchos upstate in New York - but combined with the few million that remained in various investments, I was still clinging on for dear life in the money-grubbing pit that was Manhattan. I was determined to make it here - not for the sake of achievement or public acclaim - but for once, I had found my passion and did not stoop for the easy win or get-rich-quick scheme that seemed so common in co-worker politics or ‘selling out’. I was in it for the long haul.

I celebrated my birthday alone, at the office, with nobody to wish me well except a pile of paperwork and a looming deadline. Now that I was trusted to take on assignments, I held a considerably heavier workload than when I first started submitting articles to the magazine. I shared a cramped, frantic office with a co-worker who worked feverishly through the night but suffered from clinging onto financial expert’s opinions which undoubtedly turned out to be bluffs. I held steady to my ethics and to my climb, which left me with no time to socialise but plenty to find my nook, and after another fifteen months at the magazine - two years since my emancipation, and twenty-six years old - I interviewed and successfully applied at Conde Nast Traveler, securing a position as a contributing editor, touring the world on my own dime and contributing articles which paint the landscape and identify issues which face readers when they embark overseas. I was tense with nerves before I received the phone call that confirmed my employment with Conde Nast, my hands shaking as I nodded mutely in response to the woman in HR who explained quite patiently that I would be funding any travel expenses through my own funds. My base salary was miniscule, but it would be propped up per article I submitted, provided it met the standard of expertise and was worth being published.

I sat on the floor of my bedroom, tugging tightly the zipper of a suitcase and attempting to rationalise how crazy it was that after two years of being a workaholic hermit, here I was about to board a flight and investigate the local customs and cultures abroad.

There had been little opportunity to socialise, not that I had wanted for company during the grueling sixty-hour work weeks that had comprised my schedule so soon after returning to New York. The pressing need to draw an income balanced with my yearning to fulfill pursuits based on my field of expertise and passion had pushed me to work harder than I had ever pushed myself. The result was that while I was closed off to society, who had discarded me like the dregs of a well-drunk tea, I was actively working towards a goal which had no other merit than pouring my extreme effort and will into forming a day-to-day routine which made me happy.

And happiness I did find, eventually. The routine of working such long hours, receiving little pay in return and even less accolades from co-workers as they watched me rise the career ladder was little reward for the small bump in salary and additional responsibilities that I received in return. If once upon a time I was hesitant to pursue my impulses for fear of shaming the family, now I was on a path where luxuries of leisure and love took a backseat for what was my career path and hard work. It was liberating to finish an article that won my superior’s surprise, especially so when I was favoured above others - who had connections or otherwise to succeed above me by other means - when I had reached the lowest ebb of my life and continued to persevere. Finding that strength had been achingly impossible, at a time when I had been abandoned by the few family and friends I once knew, and I had struggled many nights lying on the sparsely furnished hardwood floors of my apartment, crying mutely as I struggled to bring my brain back to real life.

With things as they were, I remained a millionaire - though most of it was shored up in investments - with a private expense account to pay for my trips abroad. No longer had I the finances with which to stay in five-star hotel resorts, dine in three-star Michelin restaurants or tour the streets by chauffeured limousine, but in keeping with a modest budget I was able to tour the better parts of Sydney (Australia), Tokyo (Japan), Paris (France), Vienna (Austria), and London (England).

After a six month stint across Europe which culminated in my travels coming to an end (as well as my apartment which I was subletting expiring soon), I returned to the States a weary, bespeckled traveler, with a tan and an expired smile, a lighter bank account and a refreshed perspective with which I would approach my new life.


	27. Friday night

I closed the door behind me and wheeled my suitcases across the hardwood floor, where something sticky had recently been used to mop it. The furniture remained in all its glory - a plush white couch with sprays of color on the cushions opposite a flat-screen TV; a wide canopy bed with plush white sheets and matching bedside tables packed heavily with travel books; a cramped kitchen equipped with state-of-the-line appliances; and a balcony upon which two wrought-iron chairs faced a copper table, ornamented in French antique and waterproof cushions for when the Manhattan hail rained down upon the bleak cityscape.

When I had finished unpacking and woken from my nap, I entered the bathroom before checking the blinking light on my answer phone. I glanced into the mirror while I massaged soap and warm water into the hands that had lost their slim, soft quality and become raw and hardened. My hair was shoulder length and unkempt, my eyes were bright but lined, and my face was harder though it retained a semblance of youth. I was twenty-seven in a manner of months, and yet I felt like I had lived till forty. I moved with a different kind of assurance and approached matters with the patience they deserved. No longer apprehensive about myself, I opened up almost too fully with perfect strangers, taken aback with the cadence in my voice and noticing almost immediately the excitement I held in all things so dearly. I had changed - for the better? I truly think so. I looked back on the past less and less as time went on, no longer surrounded by reminders of my exorbitant and regimented previous life, and took delight in the fact that I could now sit down and enjoy a meal, no longer haunted by what, if any, direction my life would take, not ordered around by anybody. It was a freedom I had only recently come to taste as sweet.

Don’t get me wrong. Of course, I had thought about guys and especially sex - that forbidden fruit which had suddenly become harder to grab now that I was free to jump. The escalade of establishing a career had obliterated any desire I once had repressed deep within, and had only just resurfaced now that I had managed to form some semblance of a private life. My cheques were in the mail for the articles I had submitted, not all of which had been approved - my first disappointment - but were a good starting ground upon which I could expect some serious assignments in the future.

While I had taken it upon myself not to look back (and with considerable hardship had I managed to suppress those ghoulish thoughts), my mind did flicker occasionally to the few men I had had in my life, however briefly or strongly I felt about them.

There was Tyler, who had fallen out of favour with his glitzy and glamorous LA crowd after contracting HIV during one of his orgies in which he practiced unprotected sex; Scott, who in a partnership venture with the agent who represented upcoming movie star Vincent Chase took over his ad agency; Thomas, who under Alistair’s reign had been swiftly terminated when his new wife found out of the suspect dalliance between the two; and Jack, who had been accepted at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore and, having not heard of my new title as social outcast, had apologised and promised but we had decided to let sleeping dogs lie.

Jessica, who had made it public of my ties to old money Earldom, stood by her husband John and gritted her perfect pearly-whites as she tolerated her husband’s burgeoning affairs on the side while she continued to shop and lunch and plan parties.

To the wider Manhattan area, interest in me had waned once I had scuppered out of sight as a hard working bohemian with little to my name beside a paltry settlement. I had few close friends - if one could call them that - whom I had met on my travels and kept in touch with me over Facebook and Skype, but it was never the same. The atmosphere of theirs was sun and fruit and exotic, where mine was a backdrop of cold brick, harsh working conditions and a bleak, grey cityscape.

It was on the weekend that I had cashed my first paycheque since my return to New York that I closed the lid of my laptop and faced reality. I needed to get out.

I scheduled a haircut and gelled my fringe back a la’ Draco Malfoy, paid for a sixty-minute massage I hadn’t indulged in for a long time, and took a trip to the Gap where I splurged like I hadn’t splurged in years, finding denim that fit the curve of my hips and swell of my rear, a shirt which slightly unbuttoned revealed the tan on my chest and growth of my body, and purchased cologne which smelled absolutely divine. It was time for me to shine.

How could anyone resist the electric vibe of Manhattan on a Friday night? It only seemed yesterday that I was riding in the chauffeured comfort of a limousine, watching out of tinted windows as snow trickled down and those less fortunate took to the streets in lieu of transport. But here I stood, on the footpath outside my apartment building, huddling for warmth in Manhattan fall, waving to the taxi as it approached and giving him the address of a well-known gay bar downtown.

“Busy shift?” I asked the cab driver.

Surprised, he replied, “Too busy. It’s dangerous on these roads.”

My breath steamed up the grimy window, and the ripped leather beneath my rear squeaked as I tried to sit comfortably. I could see the faint outline of my reflection in the glass, and try as I might, I failed to see the regal youth I had once been. Back then, I was scared, alone and indecisive. Now, I was content with the life I was leading.

The cab pulled up to the kerb, where I paid the cabbie his thirteen dollar fare with change and stepped onto the grimy sidewalk, littered with cigarette butts and discarded glass bottles at the gutter. Once I realised that nobody was looking at me, that there was nothing of concern raising their interest, I relaxed greatly and entered the darkened, pounding tempo of the bar, feeling all too soon the scrum of a hundred sweaty, shirtless guys chatting, dancing and moving through the crowd which I had missed so greatly.

Only one caught my eye, and I was surprised to see it was the perfect stranger whom had so violated me when last we met. His clothes weren’t expensive but they fit perfectly, and his smile was broad when he noticed me staring. I felt the familiar flames of lust lick my belly in desire, and I couldn’t help but smile back at him.

His arm was perched around the waist of a boy younger and slimmer than I was, with blonde hair frosted atop his pale face and a superior smirk to all he surveyed. His skinny jeans outlined his long legs, surely able to put them behind his head. His flat stomach, clearly outlined against the ribbed tank top he wore. The two of them headed towards the exit, without a backwards glance.

I stood alone in the crowd, ordering an alcoholic beverage - my first in months - and observed the crowd, still shaking with the same money-makers that caused the gay community to flock in droves, in their best attire and satiated smirks that spoke of easy living and good money.

I managed to meet the eye of an older, urbane man who must’ve been thirty-five but looked younger, who introduced himself as Will, an attorney with Doucette & Stein. He had dark hair gelled back, a tan that might’ve spoken to an exotic origin, and pearly-whites that gleamed through the crowd. He was conversational, dressed in a suit and almost self-deprecating in an ill-timed attempt at humour. I liked him, but knew I wouldn’t be interested in him after just one night. Somehow, I had changed.


	28. Waiter, please

Some months later, I had just come back from Las Vegas and was putting the finishing touches on an article on new hotel developments in the area and their proximity to the casinos when one of my co-workers tapped me on the back and asked if I would like to join him and a group of friends to eat out for dinner.

Envisioning the late-night snack that would undoubtedly be comprised of two-minute noodles or some microwave pasta, I genuinely accepted. They were heading straight there and were sharing a cab, and I was welcome to join them.

There was Lisa, who wore her dark hair in a bun, preferred pencil skirts and twinsets but had a dour expression on her face which only disappeared when she smiled. Mark, who was twenty-eight but looked younger, gelled his brown hair back and dressed preppy to the office, genial and warm. Susan, with her nose that crinkled when she laughed, which was always, enjoyed partying and fun.

We all stood laughing and huddling in the cold while waiting for our taxi, emboldened and enlightened by Susan’s mockery of Mitt Romney’s attempts to generalise the population. When the yellow cab pulled up, Lisa took to the front seat and engaged the cabbie in discussion while Susan laughingly took the seat between Mark and I. While I had never been certain, I was sure that Mark looked at me twice in the office, and while my heart surged with joy that I was not totally unappealing as a workaholic drone, I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm I might once have had.

The night breeze was cool as I exited the taxi. Lisa stepped over the worst of the gutter slush and Mark helped Susan over a particularly unsteady misstep and we entered the restaurant, homely and warm with a fire crackling in the grate and a chatty, conventional air. Steaks were cut, wine was poured, cutlery clinked.

“You know, Margaret’s retiring this year,” said Lisa, taking a tentative bite before nodding approvingly. “That leaves a vacancy in the features editor position.”

Conde Nast Traveler had three departments: copy editors ensured the accuracy and readability of content and researched sources; creative editors oversaw art and photos used in the pages; and feature editors oversaw the columnists who contributed their articles to use in the magazine. We were all contributing editors, our articles not popular enough to account for a regular column. Between us, we earned almost a hundred grand a year, chump change for the corporates who sped their Bentleys past the misted windows of Manhattan.

“I wonder who’ll take her spot,” mumbled Mark, through a mouthful of food, taking a swig of wine to clear his throat. “It’ll probably be Sophia.”

Sophia was a journalist who asked the hard-hitting questions and usually got them answered, too. She preferred people to places, and really got under the skin of those whom she interviewed. She was British, blonde and aloof at the best of times.

“She’ll be a tough bitch to work for,” said Susan, taking a heavy swig of wine. She was tipsy, but you wouldn’t know it, to think of her exuberant personality.

I ordered dessert from the menu, feeling extravagant as I enjoyed the company of good friends and great food, but when I glanced up at the waiter who passed our table, relieving a well-dressed, middle-aged couple of their empty plates, I saw the sandy-blonde hair, tanned skin and five o’clock shadow on his square jaw and couldn’t believe my eyes - it was Steve! He wore a black waistcoat and bow tie over his waiter’s uniform, and when we locked eyes - his were the same chocolate brown I remembered with a jolt - he offered a small smile in response to my automatic, bright polite one, and moved past to deliver the dishes into the kitchen.

“Do the two of you know each other?” asked Lisa inquisitively.

“I met him once,” said I. “A couple of years ago. We lost touch.”

When we had finished our meal, the group rose from the table to pay the bill. When we had split it four ways and the others departed to hail a cab, I asked the hostess if she could pass on a message with my contact details. She agreed and I went home considerably happier.

I didn’t hear from Steve that week or the next, but it didn’t matter: our department was shaken to find that Sophia had abandoned us for the New York Times, stepping up a rung on the career ladder and her earning potential skyrocketing. We were left scurrying to fill the gaps in the latest issue, but that was nothing compared to the next shocker: I was asked to fill the vacancy that Sophia had been considered to occupy in Margaret’s absence - features editor.

In eight months, Margaret would retire and the duties would be passed to me, if I chose to accept them. As the features editor, I would be in charge of the news editor and columnists; report to the senior editor who would review the changes I would make in keeping with Conde Nast Traveler’s vision and functionally report to the copy and art department to ensure that everyone held up their hand to allow the best possible, corrected and appealing content to enter the issue. I would be in charge of a staff of twenty, receive a ten thousand dollar bump in salary and be primarily responsible for sourcing the content which made the magazine profitable.

I decided to accept the position, and in the meantime would be trained to take on the responsibilities when the time came. It was almost a month before I sat at home, watching reruns of  _ Entourage _ when my cell phone rang. My eyes widened to see that it was Steve, and I answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” came the voice. “It’s Steve.”

He apologised for getting back to me so late, but would discuss it over dinner if I was interested. He had been busy of late and had managed to get some time off. When he mentioned the dinner would take place at his apartment, my heart leapt, for I sensed an impending physical coalition between us - and with blood pounding and such things, I accepted. His address was in SoHo and we were to meet in a week’s time.

In the meanwhile, I spent my leisure time working as hard as I could under Margaret. I submitted articles, rewrote copy she provided and offered ideas as I saw fit. She seemed surprised by what I offered and took it on board.

I spent late nights at the office after everyone had left and tried to take perspective of all that had happened to me. I had become a workaholic, but more than that: in my field of expertise, where my passion was an instrument, I was successfully validating change to my position. My ideas had impact and they paid off.

The night I was to meet Steve for dinner, I left work at 5 instead of staying till 10, rushing home to shower and change. I wore my best outfit, purchased at Barney’s which consisted of a navy blue shirt and tight jeans, with my blonde hair ruffled back and my skin glowing. I retained the pallor of too many late nights at the office, but for twenty-six or seven, I looked pretty damn good.

I took a cab to his address, in the bohemian-grunge neighborhood of plaster and concrete, faulty windows and roaches across the hardwood floors. He buzzed me in, and I climbed seven flights of stairs, panting slightly - I needed to exercise more, or at least start - and knocked on the door.

He wore a checkered shirt and jeans, with plain sneakers. He had the same tan, though the deathly pallor had worn his features grey and hangdog - the result of working three jobs to pay the rent. He lived alone, I was glad to confirm, and though the apartment was tidy, the furnishings were inexpensive. He was clearly straining to make it.

He offered me the couch and I declined the Heineken he proferred me, where he began tending to the sauce on the stove. I glanced around at the mismatched shelves, grimy windows and stacked CDs beside a portable TV, noticing wet rot in one corner and feeling the lint on the couch collapse onto my shirt. During the discussion it became apparent that he made a steady living, but worked damn hard for it.

He had moved to Manhattan a year ago to attempt to open an art gallery, but was so far finding it hard to front the money. He painted plenty and showed me some of the artworks on his canvas when he steered me into the bedroom, after we had eaten a delicious dinner and he had poured me wine.

He was an excellent painter, no doubt about that - but lacking the financing to push it any further. I turned to him, amazed that the slide of his nose, chiseled jaw and scruffy hair had failed to change, that like me his values remained intact, that he was just as adorable and delicious at the same time. While he lacked the vigorous luster I had met him with, deadened as he was by hours upon hours of mindless, go-nowhere jobs until he saved enough, he was considerate and patient in a way I found enticing.

He asked me what had happened to me over the past few years, and I found myself telling him the truth - at least enough of it to satisfy his interest. I was from the UK, I traveled a lot but had decided to settle in NY, and my position as features editor at Conde Nast Traveler. I was a workaholic, too, and entertained few moments of silence.

He moved close enough for us to inadvertently touch and I became instantly aware of the short golden hair upon his hair and eyelashes and arms, of the skin ravaged by overwork but his figure remained trim, his brown eyes softened in a way I hadn’t been able to stare at before. When he turned to face me, I took in his expression and it softened, at seeing me so frantic with passion. I couldn’t help it.

We tore at each other, lips touching and hands exploring, where mine unbuttoned and ripped the shirt off his back, feeling the warmth on his back before the light hairs on his chest, his nipples erect at my touch, my fingers splaying across his ribcage. When we separated for only a second, I saw the desire across every iota of his being and tore at him, pushing him onto the bed and joining him there, kissing every spare inch - his lips, cheeks, neck, shoulders. I went down to his chest and he groaned, pushing me further down where I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans and freed his rock hard erection through the elastic band of his black boxer briefs.

I had no spare sense to see, only to  _ feel _ \- taking him in my mouth felt so natural, so right, so  _ glorious _ that when he moaned and held his hands on my shoulders to the rhythm I paced myself at, I felt myself harden and nearly cream myself at the devout pleasure I was giving him. Licking and sucking and rolling my tongue around the head of his cock, delighting in the hairs on his thighs when I went lower to lick his balls and he pounded his pelvis to the tempo, where when I resumed my fascination with his dick with my tongue and throat, he surged into me with a fury and pulled out inadvertently and creamed half on my face, mostly on his chest.

His expression was such that I looked away, but it was one that turned my stomach in a good way, and when I looked at the line of cum spread out on his chest, it was all I could do not to lick it up.

I was so ready to go again, wishing I could go down on him again, but when he restrained me against his threadbare sheets and pillow, held my wrists as he licked and kissed my neck and went below, I tried not to wrestle with the fury of his mouth on me down there and almost cried out in abandon when he did manage to swallow me with a sweet sucking that feels as good as it sounds.

I woke up in his arms, which for only the briefest second was delicate and delicious and brimmed full of delights, where I snuck under the covers inbetween his thighs, sucking his monstrosity with a fascination I had never known, and he surged into my mouth not soon after.

We showered together, where the harsh daylight hit us both through the cramped cubicle and smaller window, and I could see the lines and gray fade that his skin had acquired, where no doubt he could see mine, too. But in our flaws, we were the same - and he had a terrific body. I delighted in every inch of him, but he had to start work in an hour. I left his apartment wanting more, feeling terribly sexually frustrated, my mind abound with thoughts. It was the first time I had had sex in years, and for once I was only doing the minimum required at work while I daydreamed about every inch of his face, his body, his excellent dick jutting between his legs. I tried so hard not to copulate myself in the staff bathroom, I really did.

Every time we had a free moment - whereas mine was relieving overwork, his was out of pure necessity - once a fortnight if we were lucky, we secured enough time to enjoy one another.

He came to my house, where we were beyond talking of the necessities before we were on top of each other, rolling around on the bed and taking turns to go down on each other, where the giver would suck with ability and the receiver would moan and grip and toss, the sheets wrested from the bed in the process. I took an innate interest in his crotch and he did the same; we were so fired up that by the time it ended, we fell asleep in one another’s arms. We showered, left for our separate offices and would be back in each other’s arms within a fortnight.

It was inexhaustible. I wanted him so bad I found myself begging off assignments just to wait for him to finish his shift, then we would scrounge together two hours of peace, making out and grabbing and hand holding and simpering kisses. It was pure pleasure, carnal lust, without the sweety love that I abstained from.

He enjoyed companionship with a twist, I loved the complete possession of my body and to return the favour.

I felt satiated and replete, and I couldn’t get enough. The obsession with his body went to his personality and what I hoped and certainly sensed was the same from him. As long as I got him in bed, naked and sweating and groaning and gasping, that was it. It was all I needed.

But where my personal life was succeeding, my professional life had just dipped below the required minimum, and I had to take steps to ensure that all my hard work didn’t go to waste. I picked myself up from where I had left, continued my efforts and participated in collaborative efforts to ensure that the issue was a great one.


	29. Promotion

Nine months later - three years and three months since my emancipation - I was promoted to the position of features editor, replacing Margaret who had retired. Steve and I were still hot and heavy; our workloads ensured that by the time we saw each other every fortnight, we were pent up with passion to unload on each other.

It certainly seemed that he was getting no release from another guy; nor did I have the time to solicit services from someone else, not that I needed to. He was all I needed sexually, and while we hadn’t termed our partnership monogamous, if he was screwing around, then I hoped it was to relieve pressure and for the sake of variety, than anything that was missing in our tryst. I did mention it only once, in passing, that if anything was to happen with anyone else, I preferred discretion and protection of paramount importance. Other than that, I did not cling on to him any more than was usual for two star-crossed sex fiends. With equal gusto I rode Steve like I straddled the magazine - my ambition was growing, to take over the magazine and one day reign as editor-in-chief.

As the Christmas vacation approached, the magazine would be shut down and staff members would be able to cash in their holiday pay as per their contract. I was considering going abroad with Steve, though we hadn’t spent more than a night together in six months of overwork. We hadn’t progressed past the light banalities of small talk before ripping each other’s clothes off. He had managed to secure full-time employment and a casual job that supplemented his income, so while his experience and pay had increased, he was still busy at erratic hours in the trying metropolis that was Manhattan.

He informed me that he would be spending time with his parents in Arkansas, so I booked a suite at the Mandarin in Las Vegas, at four hundred a night over Christmas and New Years.

I had as much interest in gambling as I did playing netball, so when I arrived in Las Vegas I found it covered with snow but plenty of tourists ready to flash cash. The casinos were massive, with five-dollar tables and five thousand-dollar tables, VIP rooms for the hard-hitters and waitresses offering shrimp cocktails and salted nuts to those who began early and stayed till late.

The Mandarin was opulent. Eastern decor influenced the recessed paneling, tiny vases of flowers and muted cream furnishings. It was entirely peaceful, for the hotel in the middle of a gilded, crazed casino city.

I worked from the hotel suite while watching the snowfall during the day, and in the evening I would book a massage and encase myself in the sweet smelling sheets after a long, relaxing bath, closing my eyes to sleep and enjoying the air conditioning. It had been the longest time since I had treated myself, had abstained from the rigors of hard work and play, luxuriated in the leisures my hard-earned money had bought me. Since my emancipation, just less than three million remained to me, invested in various stocks and investments. My old life seemed like a faraway fantasy, a life of leisure and luxury I had long forgotten, one of repression and restraint.

When I turned thirty, I accepted the position of senior editor with Details magazine, another publication under the Conde Nast masthead. Details was a contemporary magazine which focused on the modern man - style, success, travel, grooming. By this time, my salary was forty thousand dollars. I had a wider span of control with more employees to oversee and my duties ranged from editorial to human resources to consultative with various outlets in the media industry.

Steve and I continued to be regular f-buddies; we never progressed further than a casual arrangement. By this time, I knew he was seeking other people as a refuge on the side, now that I could no longer sustain the appropriate time to ferment a relationship of any sort. Where I was once reclusive and reluctant, I was forthcoming and ambitious, in an attempt to secure both the safety of my financial future and achieve what I believed to be my utmost passion in life.

While we enjoyed one another physically, when it was just the two of us together for an extended period of time, I had tendencies to switch between sugar-sweet clingy and determinedly aloof. I did not have the basic fabric with which one sustains a relationship, I put all my time and effort into my work anyway, and from what I perceived to be love early on from having met Steve, was coveting the all-American, home warmth, steady track of life on which I supposed he resided. Clearly, our interests were different - and while I did enjoy his body - we could not entertain each other permanently without me becoming too attached or too busy, depending on my wayward emotional cycle. So, we decided to leave it at a crossroads and that time would tell.

I met with my previous co-workers from Conde Nast Traveler occasionally, but they were routinely on assignments, some staying at the magazine, others promoted or moving to rival publications. In New York, there was only ever time for business meetings, not personal relationships.

Six years having not heard a word from my sister, I received a call in the middle of a working day which I deferred to a more appropriate time. When I returned home and called her long-distance - she remained in London - our conversation was stilted, but more open than I had ever thought possible. Whatever sibling relationship I had envisioned was previously possible was not achievable, yet it was something for her to be so forthcoming. Three things she addressed with me in frank detail:

With Alistair poised to take the position I had abdicated, he more or less resided in the family estate as though he had already inherited it. He had married a few years earlier, to someone of “bland quality” and was still as demanding and entitled as ever. Grace refused to meet with him and only under circumstances under the most extreme circumstances, which had yet to present themselves. She had attended the wedding out of habit, but did not go to great lengths to involve herself in family matters.

Second, she was engaged to a French businessman, who owned a chateau in the Champs-Elysees and dealt primarily in wine and the sale of expensive vintages. They would marry before she was thirty, in a private ceremony to which neither of our parents had consented to confirm. True to form, they were furious that their daughter had broken the insular social circle in which they propagated the family line.

Third, she was inviting me to the wedding, held at their estate. When I joked to her - in a rare moment of solidarity - that the ‘proper thing to do’ was to send a letter handwritten in calligraphy by post - she sighed with some considerable irritation, and I could tell she resented the way our mother would instruct us to be civil.

Nevertheless, she gave me the date and I made sure to submit time off from the magazine, to visit for the weekend in which the wedding would be held.

Since my position was new - and I was a relative outsider to the new organisational structure and employees within it - I could not afford to take gaps of time off, no matter their importance. I was granted the time off, promised Grace I would be there and hung up with some distinct feeling of resolution. I knew that we couldn’t be as close as some siblings were, given our circumstances; but it was enough to know that we were trying. Our parents - with the son abandoning the family honor and the daughter marrying both beneath her station and abroad - refused to talk to us until the end of time.


	30. Wandering hand

Early Friday morning, I left my apartment and wheeled my suitcase across the lobby and into the cab waiting at the kerb. The sun shone brightly across New York, displaying its gritty, greedy grime for all to see. I was glad to be leaving, even if it was only for a few days.

Upon arriving at JFK, I was sped through customs and entered the first-class lounge, funded by Grace’s fiancee who had thoughtfully financed my trip to France. Around me were well-dressed executives in their Hermes ties and expensive cologne, with that unmistakable American air of self-pride and entitlement that comes with money in a capitalist country. I had retained my hard work ethic, my British accent and my sense of style - but had allowed American values to change my passion into pursuit.

I placed my luggage on the conveyor belt, politely greeted the flight attendant who directed me to my seat and offered me champagne, which I refused. I buckled my seat and reclined my chair, determined to relax for the duration of the flight, but my mind was buzzing with the unanswered calls and e-mails from work that would surely await me when I next consulted my laptop.

Upon my arrival in Paris, I collected my luggage and was retrieved by a chauffeured black sedan, who ensured that I had no requests and spoke passable English with a French accent. He drove me through city lights, out into the cultured woodland, where the car paused in front of a pair of wrought-iron, electronic gates before he was buzzed through and the chateau came into sight.

It was two-storied, with a spread of manicured lawn fringed by box hedges, sparse trees dotted about the gardenia and a neatly paved driveway that wound singularly around the estate. The vineyard from which Grace’s fiancee derived the bulk of his fortune spread out in the afternoon sunlight, where workers diligently maintained the fruitful crops. Grace stood on the steps which led to the front door, smiling wanly.

Born and bred to be a lady of elegance, Grace had held herself with correct poise and grace since she could hold the correct silver fork and knife. While she retained the expression mask of pleasant smile, perfect posture and ladylike gestures, she had relaxed in her smile, the faint lines that crinkled around her eyes and the flow of speech which lacked considerable social doublespeak. She had developed her own, unique style since moving abroad and wore a grey tweed pencil skirt with a crisp white shirt, pearl earrings and a flower in her hair. She looked radiant, but refined in her joy.

She led me into the foyer, where I could see fine antiques furnishing the rooms she led me through. Gilded chaise longues, vases of flowers atop plinths, landscape paintings on the chestnut walls, fine rugs.

We ate lunch inside the gazebo outdoors, overlooking the stunning vista of the vineyard below. The fragrance of flowers was almost overpowering, as we picked at cucumber sandwiches and sipped mineral water, avoiding every subject but small talk. Finally, she broke the silence, with a unruffled shrug and smoothing her skirt:

“I grew up in the same environment you did, so you can understand that when you broke free, I was envious of your free spirit. Suddenly, you were cast into a shroud and I…”

She adjusted her earring and stared out at the garden, delighting in the scents abound.

“I wanted to follow by your example. But I have no intention nor education with which to secure any feasible employment by which to finance my lifestyle. I was scared, for the longest time of reaching out… until I met Remy.”

At this, she offered the merest smile and turned to me.

“He’s been very good to me. I won’t pretend that the disassociation wasn’t difficult.”

Grace took a sip of her mineral water and turned her attention away from the matter. She wouldn’t be forthcoming to any great extent; that was the pinnacle of the private life we led. I did not need anything more than her complicity towards me.

The guest bedroom I occupied held a four-poster bed set with lavender-scented sheets, a vase of flowers atop the mantlepiece and a club chair adjacent to a small bookcase. The ensuite was set with scented soap, fresh towels and marble shower with bathtub.

I showered and changed for dinner, appraising my appearance in the mirror above the sink. For thirty, I had lost the vulnerability of youth, but retained the distant pride which set me apart from my American counterparts. My chin tilted ever so slightly high, my blue eyes burned fiercely and my expression of polite interest was my namesake. I smoothed the lint from my navy shirt, brushed an impeccable crease in my pants and admired the long, thin fingers which would’ve done credit to a piano.

I descended the staircase in silence, my hands running across the banister to steady my gait. The scent of fragrance and flowers and fine cuisine filled my senses.

I found Grace sitting opposite Remy, at the head of the glass dining table with a fragrant centerpiece and candles apiece to separate them. Remy rose and introduced himself; a fine-featured man with gentle hands who shared his love of wine as he served me a bottle of something aged and expensive. Grace and Remy shared nothing beyond the required, polite smile; but behind closed doors, they were close companions as I had never known, that I wouldn’t appreciate until later in life.

Following dinner and dessert, Grace retired upstairs while Remy invited me to the drawing room, panelled in chestnut wood with leather club chairs, tall bookcases featuring gilt-lettered tomes and a fire crackling in the grate.

He offered me some more wine, and perhaps because I hadn’t indulged at dinner or back home, I accepted. We settled on club chairs adjacent to each other and again, I marveled at how my sister, of correct carriage and comportment, had found her match.

We chatted over the wedding, his family and mine, the estate and the winery, my place in American journalism. It was so sudden I didn't notice it until a second later that he had placed his hand upon my knee, so gentle it might not have been there had I not noticed the movement, nor had his expression or posture changed. I could’ve easily had conceived it as familial had he not leant forward to kiss me and had I not backed off.

I retired upstairs to my bedroom, locked the door and took a long bath in the gilded, claw-footed tub. The sheets were warm, soft and inviting from the fire in the grate, and while I should’ve been comforted by such soothing and decadent surroundings, I twisted and turned in my sleep, rife with the knowledge that I was complicit to a secret I would never reveal to my sister.


	31. Lonely at the top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where our protagonist becomes a shameless male-Miranda Priestly.

By thirty-three I had become senior editor, thirty-six managing editor, and just before my fortieth birthday had become editor-in-chief of Details magazine. I was in command of the entire magazine’s staff, responsible overall for publishing and profit within this division under Conde Nast’s masthead and received a salary to the tune of a million dollars, two personal assistants and my own office overlooking Madison Avenue.

“Yes?” I answered the blinking phone line from my desk, in the minimalist stark space that was my office.

“It’s your sister speaking,” replied Grace, effortlessly prudish in British. She was thirty-eight or thirty-nine, holding manner in fine fashion. “I’ve arranged some plans for your birthday.”

“Let’s not discuss this again,” I replied, my British accent as affected as ever. I scribbled my signature on various documents spread out across my desk, sent an e-mail I was halfway through and consulted my calendar for the coming month. “I’m very busy.”

“It’s your fortieth birthday,” replied Grace, as I heard the chatter and sounds of conversation in the background. “Quiet, you two.”

“You don’t need to fuss.”

“Nonsense,” she scolded. “Come visit us at the chateau.”

Having stayed one night among the wailing of twin toddlers, I had no desire to reside in the same household as she.

“I’ll think about it,” I said shortly, then added, “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“Michael!” I hung up the phone and consulted my planner. “Find your way into my office.”

When I glanced up a second later, I gazed into the youthful, strong build that was my first assistant and glanced away again to my computer monitor, where e-mails listed abound.

“Book me into the Coco Chanel suite at the Ritz a fortnight from now. I’ll need luggage packed, a selection of flights flying out on Friday and returning on Sunday.”

“Yes, Daniel,” he nodded, scribbling away as he returned to his desk.

I rose from my desk and walked out to the anteroom which housed on either side the desks where my assistants feverishly worked. I handed Michael the sheaf of signed documents he would process, confirming various financial and legal statements, and glanced to the empty desk where a swivel chair sat abandoned, new computer and monitor lying dormant, office stationery spread about in an organised pattern.

“Where’s the new assistant?” I asked, flicking through the incoming calls on my cell phone.

“He’s out fetching your lunch,” replied Michael faithfully, handing my coat, scarf and gloves from within a cupboard as I headed for the door. He held it open for me.

“No need,” I replied, sauntering through without a glance back. “I’ll be eating at Per Se.”

Several staffers I passed on the way to the elevator muttered half hearted greetings, whom I failed to notice or reply to with my face in my cell phone, glancing up to the lone staffer who had reached the elevator before I and, upon noticing my presence, was quick to hold the doors open for me.

“Thank you,” I replied, not above common courtesy. She practically flattened herself into a corner to make room for me, though I was not conducting an orchestra nor had I gained fifty pounds.

When she moved past me to press the ground floor button, I did not make way for her nor did I acknowledge her presence. I glanced up from my cell phone and noticed her mousy brown hair held in a ponytail, clutching binders to her creased white button-down chest and pinstripe trousers ending in flat brown heels. Her makeup was smeared with perspiration, her hair blown into strands and her fingernails painted with a tacky red.

“It’s such an honor to work with you, sir,” she replied breathlessly, gazing up at me. She managed to extricate a clammy hand without unsettling the bulk of the folders she was balancing and smiled. “I’m Suzy.”

The elevator doors slid open and I stepped out, all too aware of the claustrophobia I had experienced in that cramped, stifling vestibule.

“Good afternoon, sir,” came the greeting at the security desk, to which I nodded.

Across the tiled lobby of Conde Nast, submerged in a plethora of business-suit-clad executives, stiletto-and-skirt models whom shrugged their manes of blonde hair, mid-level grunts whom balanced coffee on styrofoam holders and ethnic immigrants who manned the stalls selling magazines, newspapers and a variety of hot dogs and kebabs as I pushed through the rotating glass doors and emerged out onto the sidewalk.

My limousine pulled up to the kerb just as I took a grateful breath of fresh air, aware of the buzzing activity around me, from cell phones to harried conversation, nodding to the driver who held open the back door and shut it behind me when I had seated myself comfortably on the polished leather inside.

“Per Se,” I reminded the driver, who glanced momentarily at me in the rearview mirror and nodded his assent. Had he not been informed by Michael as to my destination, he would be in line for a severe reprimand. He raised the partition so I could have silence and privacy.

While the limousine pulled into traffic, I watched from within the air-conditioned, marble surfaces through tinted windows out onto the granite scenery, passing quickly to gilded facades of illustrious apartment buildings or reflections from the glass windows on Madison Avenue, catering to the wealthy shoppers who walked aplenty on either side of the pavement. The sun shone hotly outside while I remained chilled as I poured myself a glass of water from the minibar, scrolling down the contact list on my cell phone and dialing ‘office’, a vague notion which could summon without specificity the attention of either assistant in my employ.

“Michael,” I responded, the moment the dial tone clicked open. “I’d like you to remind the chef that feeding Trixie anything beside her approved pet food is off-limits. I repeat: this goes for the maids as well. She is highly allergic and I won’t have her keeling over the moment I come home. Get in touch with Ryan Gosling’s people over the cover shoot. I’ve decided on a change of venue for the meeting and will need to follow up with them about the contracts they’ve sent over for me to look at.”

“Sure,” he replied, fast at work with transcribing for there was no chance I’d repeat myself again.

“I’ve just seen a scarf I like on one of the mannequins displayed on Madison Avenue,” I commented, briefly remembering it was in one of the glossy magazines I liked to read. “I’d like three in different colours delivered to my home tonight. Also, I’ll need to conduct a meeting later today about staff performance. There will be some setbacks as I predict, but nonetheless everyone needs to be informed that their contributions will be subject to review.”

I snapped the cell phone closed and glanced outside to where the limousine had parked in front of Per Se, milling about with the few-and-fancified who could step into its doors without asking for a reservation. I had a standing appointment every day at noon, unless I decided to eat indoors from the range of restaurants who hand-delivered to my door.

Once inside, the atmosphere was hush and muted, with the quiet hubbub of enthused conversation and the tinkle of silver cutlery on plates, champagne pouring into flutes which clinked, and the ever-present accompaniment of effusive waiters in livery.

“Your table is ready for you, sir,” greeted the maitre’d, handing my coat and scarf to a busboy who placed it on a silk hanger within an enclosed space. He lead me among the masses, perfumed and portent as they were, and pulled out my chair for me to sit facing the room at large, handing me a menu while another poured me sparkling water.

“No champagne for me,” I ushered the busboy away, who had been prepared to pour me an expensive vintage I had no interest in, because I seldom drank. “I’ll have the usual, and I’ll be prepared to leave in thirty minutes.”

This meant that while the meal would take at least twenty minutes to prepare, I had no interest in staying beyond the remaining ten minutes I would have to consume it. I was not a fan of leisurely indulgence, nor did I have the time for it, so when I stated in my clipped way that the maitre’d was to voice this to the staff, he mopped his brow and inclined his head when I dismissed him without a further word.

I turned the ringer off my cell phone not a second before it silently vibrated in my pocket, ignoring it all the while I studied the patrons whom smiled and waved in my direction, and I nodded to them in return. I was more a workaholic than a social creature, so while many of my stature enjoyed throwing lavish parties in which they were the centre of attention, I preferred keeping to myself, finishing work ahead of deadline and confirming with all those involved that everything was proceeding according to plan.

This way, I came across cold and aloof but in fact, considered prompt arrival and timely organisation to be of paramount importance where profitability was at stake each year.

My meal arrived in fifteen minutes, allowing me to savor the crisply grilled steak, steaming hot potatoes and juicy leeks which were a complement to the meal. Time and again the waiters hovered obsequiously nearby, nervous for I had yet to utter a single word and yet, with so many patrons on which to bestow their knowledge of cuisine and wine, I never changed my mind about the meal, the absence of wine or the mandatory requirement that my glass of water was never to remain below two thirds full.

While I ate, I seldom glanced up if at all, which surprised me because I rarely had occasion on which to ponder how considerably alone I was in this world. Since climbing the ladder up Conde Nast’s ranks to where I had secured myself at the pinnacle of my publication, there had been a lingering ember where once my romantic history held a counterpart to my professional life, and it had fizzled long ago since. I had not seen Steve in years, hadn’t visited a gay bar since my twenties and had failed to form an association with anyone beyond that of an acquaintance or a business partner. The few friends I had were editors in high places, who held as little regard as I did for idle talk, and did not actively seek out my company unless it would serve to boost their own careers.

Indeed, when this fact came to lodge itself in my throat so assuredly I thought I might choke, I took a deep gulp of water to soothe my nerves and waved the waiter off who waited ready with a glass jug full of lemon ice. I could see that those around me who had become super successful had to some extent reaped the rewards of achievement. Where they might have been happy with someone who loved them truly, they had settled for what their prominence attracted: trophy wives or husbands, whom compensated for their lack of beauty or brains, or both.

I wiped my mouth with my napkin, tossing it on the table as I rose and sauntered past the crammed tables of whom so many craned their necks to look. It was widely established that while I had managed to climb to social prominence once again, I held little interest for the fallacies of Manhattan social politics and even less for the traps they lay for me.

I took the coat and scarf from the busboy without a further word, thanking the maitre’d for the meal and heading out onto the pavement where the limousine was already waiting, chauffeur poised with the back door open and cap tipped at my arrival.

When I returned to the office, the corridors were noticeably silent as I walked into the anteroom which fronted my office, where Michael stood on my arrival and hung my coat and scarf before informing me the meeting was scheduled to take place at once.

“Do you have the folder?” I asked, as he handed me a binder filled with everybody employed at the magazine, their length of service and contributions forthwith.

I reviewed it while making my way down the hallways to the meeting room, where Michael followed in earnest and where midway we stumbled upon my second assistant, Justin. His dark hair, tailored suit and polished shoes were not without a great deal of lacquer, following the Wall Street code of style with his tan, whitened smile and swagger. He had slung several Hermes bags piled high with slinky soft scarves and a nylon tote bag with the S&W monogram over one arm and carried a polystyrene tray holder with steaming hot Starbucks coffees balanced precariously with the other, looking considerably windswept and surprised at my presence. His excuses fell on deaf ears as I sauntered past, hearing his footsteps clatter back up to the anteroom while Michael held the door to the conference room open.

Everyone stood in my presence as I passed them to seat myself at the head of the table, where pens unclicked and papers unsheathed and folders spread out in a fan across the table. Without warning some idle staffer poured sparkling water from a glass on my right and I barely glanced in his direction though he came too close for comfort.

“Lock the doors,” I decreed and it was done. “Let’s begin. Jessica, what have you got for travel?”

Adjusting the hair band which restrained her glossy chestnut curls, Jessica rattled off a list of articles which she and her columnists had submitted in conjunction before there was a rattling on the glass walls which surrounded the conference room and we all glanced up as one, to the pinstripe-suited lad who stood frozen, realising he had been left out on purpose.

“Carry on,” I said to Jessica, then turned to Michael who bent down to incline his ear. “Get rid of him.”

He nodded and walked off as I consulted the notes and papers organised before me, nodding and occasionally inserting compliment or criticism where it lay best. Once ten minutes had passed I glanced at my Rolex and rose; this was the signal for everyone to collect their papers and leave. I walked out into the corridor amid scurrying staff members who wove out of my way as I entered the anteroom, where the second assistant was collecting what little personal belongings he had, red-faced as he glanced at me when I peered at him curiously and turned to Michael.

“Do you have the - “

There was a sudden movement and I was all too aware of how close the second assistant was to me, fuming with barely controlled breathing, his shoulders hunched and taut like a rhinoceros on attack.

“Yes?” I glanced down at the coffee stain on his Brooks Brothers shirt.

“How dare you fire me!” he shouted, more loudly than he had intended, for several coworkers had stopped dead in their tracks, mouths agape.

With some confusion, I turned to Michael. “What did you say to him?”

“I told him to get out. The meeting was already in progress,” quipped Michael.

I turned back to the second assistant, who resumed his furious glances.

“Are you under the misapprehension that we hired you for this? To disturb meetings?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I silenced him with a look. “I have no interest in staff who cannot keep their own hours. You had a half hour to return to the office in time for the meeting and you failed to do so.”

“I was picking up your dry cleaning - and finding those scarves, not that any were on display in - “

“I’m not interested in excuses,” I glanced up to the staffers who, upon my glance, quickly scurried back to work. “I expect this won’t happen again.”

I continued through to my office, where Michael hurried to assist and Justin, quite flustered and wrong-footed, collected his pride and slowly began to return his belongings onto the desk.

“Get me Ryan Gosling’s people,” I glanced up from where I had settled myself at my desk. “And I’ll take that coffee, what little of it hasn’t spilled on your shirt.”

Close to five in the evening, I announced that I would be leaving the office to the relief of many who had stayed on to impress me. Michael collected my coat and scarf from the closet while the second assistant phoned ahead to the chef to inform that I would soon be arriving.

I wound the scarf around my neck after shrugging into the cashmere-lined coat that fell three-quarter length to my knees and glanced over to the desk where the second assistant replaced the receiver and sighed before realizing he was under my gaze.

“I expect the scarves will be at my home when I arrive,” I quipped over my shoulder, heading down the corridor and hearing urgent scramblings from behind.

During the limousine ride home, I watched the starry sky and dour grey of construction fill my vision, taking occasional sips of the sparkling water from a seemingly never-ending supply. Upon my arrival, I took the penthouse elevator up to my apartment where I was promptly greeted by a stark foyer with a vase of sunflowers atop a console table in the centre of the room.

“Trixie?” I called, as was custom when I returned home.

Without fail, into sight bounded a feline with soft brown-and-white fur, looking withered and skittish from a distance but undeniably cuddly and cute up close. Trixie refused to let anyone besides myself go anywhere near her, and the maids shared incidents of jumping in surprise when they opened a door and out bolted a cat, a blur in motion as she wound in between legs in her haste to escape capture.

Taking her to the vet was out of the question, for she always recognised any device which was to become her temporary cage and on retainer, a full-time veterinarian was highly paid to stay on-call should any emergency befall my prized, privileged pet.

“Good evening, sir,” murmured the chef, who wore an apron over his chef whites and placed before me a plate heaped with steaming potatoes, sliced vegetables and a slice of meat so rare it might first have been showcased at the Smithsonian.

“Good evening, Adam,” I noted his slim build, his almost shaved hair and features which were reminiscent of a sad Snoopy Dog. He was without doubt as tasty as the meal I was about to consume, but my proprietary and manners refused any untoward contact.

During the end of my meal in which I was served a mouthwatering chocolate souffle to rival the chef who served it to me, I heard footsteps on the tile beyond the smooth carpet which blanketed the apartment and glanced at the reflection in the mirror poised above a console table, at such an angle so that I could watch the second assistant toil about in hanging the dry cleaning bags in the closet in the foyer, place a single Hermes tote bag atop the console table in the center and glance around to check that everything was in order. All of a sudden, Trixie darted across the corridor and he jumped, as everyone always did to her sudden appearance. Startled to life, he turned and left the apartment, shutting the door with a snap.

I finished the last of my souffle, thanked the chef and dismissed him before heading into my bedroom. The venetian slats above my super king-sized bed shone moonlight onto the gilded coverlet spread out on the foot of my bed, to the claw footed chaise longue where I sat in silence and consulted my planner. The days ahead were filled with meetings, so far from now that I felt I would never be free until I was retired.

But who was I kidding? I sealed the date planner with the fresh silk of the Hermes scarf which I had collected from the tote bag, powder gray and smooth to the touch.

I enjoyed working this hard, each and every day, to push myself to the limit.

All for the magazine - all for Details.


	32. Patricide

By eight each morning I would arrive at the office, and like clockwork when I took the elevator to my floor, I would walk along the empty corridors devoid of all but the most fanatical of staff members, who worked beyond their pay grade to achieve the best but whom I barely noticed.

I tossed my coat and scarf onto one of the desks positioned outside my office and entered to find Michael laying out the many newspapers and magazines which I read upon the underlit bureau. I noted with satisfaction the steaming Starbucks coffee which sat atop a coaster on my desk and the paper bag he held from which he extricated several gourmet chocolate muffins upon a gilded china plate.

I dismissed him and sat at my desk to inhale the glorious scent and taste of black coffee, spending no more than a few minutes reviewing my schedule for the day before picking up the phone and dialing someone across the world with whom I would do business. Before long, staffers began arriving at the office and I could hear their hurried, muted conversations even from within the depths of my office.

I fiddled with the gold ballpoint pen before scribbling something indecipherable on the notepad before me. I wondered how the men in my life were faring; among them especially Steve, whom had gone his own way in the pursuit of life and love.

Alone at the top, I mused on this for some while before the blinking phone light, flashing e-mail message on my computer screen and physical presence of Michael startled me.

“Yes?” I glanced up over my copy.

“You asked me to inform you when I would be taking my vacation break,” he spoke in a quiet tone unlike the brash rigor of Justin, who no doubt collected his impressions from Leonardo DiCaprio’s  _ Wolf of Wall Street _ . “My fiancee and I will be taking our honeymoon in a fortnight.”

I studied him for a moment, then shrugged off the inconvenience this posed. “Very well.”

Standing silent but for a nod of his head, he turned to head back to his desk before I glanced up and uttered, “Do find a replacement for your position. I expect you’ll adequately train a replacement before I leave for Paris.”

I clicked ‘send’ on several e-mails, finished up a conference call and talked to Ryan Gosling - what a babe! - before hanging up and stifling the sigh of forlorn love. I rose from my desk to call out for lunch, striding into the anteroom where I saw Justin headed down the corridor, his tight butt clad in the grey suit he wore, both shuffling and swaggering in his haste to collect the meal before I became too irate.

“Where’s the intern?” I asked, referring to the sole candidate whom would be available for me to interview as a moment’s notice.

“She’s coming, sir,” Michael consulted the telephone, but I had already lost interest.

“See that she finds her way to my office before I find out in which department she works.”

Not a moment later, she sped into view. Panting and heaving like she had run a marathon, she nearly tripped in her haste to pass through the anteroom and extend her flabby arm covered in freckles and perspiration.

“Sorry I’m late,” she revealed half-chewed gum and beamed through sharp incisors. “I’m Madeline. I’m here for the assistant position?”

I stood, watching her appraising expression as her shoulder slunk and she recollected herself now that she had discontinued the element of Euclidean geometry. We sat and I watched her glance around at the office instead of focusing on me as she should have; with her greasy ringlets of ginger hair curling about her ample shoulders and back fat, designer lens perched atop a pierced nose, leopard-print tunic which draped her midriff and revealed the slightest hint of her chubby thighs, and the leopard-print spiked flats she wore. I could not be more repulsed; but I needed an assistant for the weeks ahead.

“So, Madeline,” I boomed in my best, British no-nonsense carelessness. “I require the services of an assistant for - “

“Oh, I know, right?” she cocked her head and squinted, erupting in peals of laughter. In the anteroom, Michael hunched his shoulders and cringed. “Mikey told me all about it. Yah. I’m perfect for the job; I’ve had loads of assistant experience - “

“I’m not interested in someone who will go home at the end of the day feeling fulfilled by the considerable praise their boss has given them,” I summoned up what reserves I could bother to. “This will be hard, there are no doubts about that. When Michael leaves for his honeymoon - “

“Oh, I can’t believe it, you know?” she gasped and spluttered and laughed, a hacking cough or two thrown in for good measure. I peered at her and tried not to squelch.

“Michael! This meeting’s done.” I rose from my desk and passed the bovine shrew who stood as I passed her. “I don’t see a glass of sparkling water on my desk.”

“Oh!” she cried, as though finding a diamond in the rough. “Sit down. Let me get that for you.”

I turned in horror to see her sticky, greasy hands on the Baccarat glass which she placed on my desk - without a coaster - and began pouring Pellegrino into it without noticing the fizz was over spilling onto the gleaming glass counter.

“Leave it, leave it, you idiot girl!” I wanted to shout, but restrained myself and faced her with a death glare. “We’re done. You may go now.”

She skipped off happily, without a care in the world, genuinely convinced she had got the job. I turned to Michael, who looked as ashen-faced as I, and regarded her mental faculties as lacking.

“Are you quite sure there’s nobody else?” I peered at him as though this was his idea of a joke.

“She’ll get better,” he stammered, aware he and Justin would have to put in even more overtime than they already did to ensure Madeline fit the mold. “She’s a bit… dreamy.”

“That’s one word for it!” I commanded, striding back into my office. I picked up the phone and dialed ‘assistant’, reached Michael who inwardly sighed and forwarded my call to Justin. It had been ten minutes since I had sent him out for lunch.

“I can’t imagine what’s taking you so long,” I glanced at the planner which so painstakingly occupied every spare minute of my time. “I asked you over a half hour to fetch my lunch and you spend every spare minute dilly-dallying on corporate expense. Find my lunch and return it to the office - your presence is optional!”

I slammed down the phone and picked up the call that signaled a personal call. Surprised, I consulted the register and saw with some shock that it was registered in England.

“Yes?” I answered without haste, settling myself on the comfortable leather swivel chair.

If it was my mother, who was critical of any fault, doubtless she would have much to say. If it was my father, he was nowhere near ready to forgive me for the family I had abandoned. If it was my sister… well, it wasn’t my sister. No family members existed with whom I had kept in contact. Who could it be?

“Earl of Yorkshire,” spoke the clammy-sweet voice. “Editor-in-chief?”

“Alistair,” I called, just loudly enough so that Michael understood just how I felt about this call getting through. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“I see you haven’t lost favor with those whom you criticise,” Alistair chortled. “Tell me, how does it feel to be the second most famous Brit in New York, and yet nowhere near as successful as me?”

My blood ran cold. There could only be one reason he was calling.

“I expect you’re calling about Father,” I spoke into the phone, noticing as a passing staffer was quickly ushered away by Michael as he closed my doors into silence.

“It was very painless,” Alistair assured me, though doubtless he was filled with glee. “The ceremony was quick. I have taken claim of the estate and all the monies, titles with it…”

Earl Alistair of Yorkshire, I thought bitterly. He would be claim to a billion-dollar fortune, an estate aged with history and grandeur, the ultimate social recognition short of becoming a duke or viscount.

“How regal your responsibilities will be,” I was surprised to find my voice free of envy or bitterness. “You’ve waited your whole life for this - “

“And you threw it away!” he said with some contempt. Doubtless he was perched on a velvet armchair, steepling his talc-powdered fingertips while he drank whiskey beside a fireplace. “To become… what? A media baron? Selling style to the masses?”

A swallow and then a clink of glass as he resettled the tumbler atop its coaster.

“I must admit, if you’re looking for excitement in life, reigning over a rainy estate in London won’t do the trick,” he quietly conferred. “But if it’s everlasting glory and riches, acceptance on the social ladder like a commoner can never hope to attain to, then why, it’s as glorious as anything!”

“I can pursue my own whims on my own terms,” I spoke into the phone. “I’m free. You’re not.”

“The old boy’s dead and you know it, I know it, your mother knows it - god, she’s practically on her deathbed without a soul to light her candle at night. You think I’ve played hermit all these years waiting for him to keel over? I’ve certainly indulged, doubtless more than you have, with all those hours you kill yourself over. And for what? So you can climb to the top and say you’re free? I’ve meddled in the interim and I’ll continue to do so now. Nobody’s going to say otherwise - not your father, not my wife and certainly not you, for a start. You’ve thrown it all away for nothing - only discretion could’ve saved you, that and a bit of luck - but you had to go and have your  _ independence _ .”

He scoffed and harshly laughed.

“You’ve got your god-given right, or whatever you call it,” he slurred. “But you’re just as lonely as me, with more regrets than I!”

He hung up laughing and slowly, I replaced the receiver on the handset, not admitting the many fine features I once had, tossed overboard to sail a different ship.

“Sir?” There came a knock on the door when the phone light had blinked off and inside walked Justin, carrying the nylon tote which contained the delicious meal I would consume for lunch. “Am I interrupting?”

I made no move to aid him as he lay the gilded china plates filled with delicious steak, vegetables and laid silver cutlery out before me. His cologne was masculine, overpowering but intoxicating. He moved around me, his pinstripe suit clinging in all the right edges. I glimpsed the silver cufflinks he hoisted his collars to; the thick black belt which held his pants in place, the shock of dark hair held firm with mega-gel.

“There you are, sir,” he said, more softly than he had uttered and I glanced up at him, for once noticing his fine, supple features and doe-eyed, fascinated worship.

“That’ll be all, Justin,” I remembered his name in the nick of time and watched him walk out, the fit of his suit jacket accenting his tight butt, sculpted against the pinstripe pattern.

It wasn’t until I returned home that I remembered my father was dead, and wept no tears by his absence, replaced only by a surging fury quite complicating my demeanour.

I abandoned my half-eaten dinner at the table, quietly closed the bedroom door behind me and sat on the carpet with my back to the bed, all dark with moonlight filtering through the venetian slades and Trixie coming forth from her hiding place, snuggling into me now that the sound of exterior footsteps had vanished. I patted her, vaguely aware of a foreign sensation in my face, but wiping it away. There would be none of that, I promised myself.


	33. Justin

“Good morning, Adam,” I greeted the chef, for each and every day he rose before seven to serve breakfast.

“Good morning, Daniel,” he replied cheekily, repressing the grin that threatened to emerge.

If I didn’t find some reason to terminate him, he would end up leaving of his own free will.

Plates of sizzling bacon, juicy mushrooms and steaming hot hash browns accompanied plungers of black coffee, tea pots filled with mandarin orange, crystal jugs topped up with sparkling or flat water including apple, orange, tomato and cranberry juice.

The sun sparkled on the clear glass surface of the expansive window which looked out unto New York. I settled myself more readily at the table and read the newspaper article discreetly announcing Alistair’s promotion to peerage while sipping my coffee.

By eight I had arrived at the magazine, where corridors were bustling and staffers were busier, for they had not been informed of my arrival as I had ‘forgotten’ to phone ahead to the office. By some stroke of luck, the driver had opted to do that for me.

People crossed my path to and fro, narrowly avoiding the stride I kept for when I glanced in several offices I saw that once-harried executives had settled papers on their desks, shuffled aside miscellaneous mess that might bring affrontery to my sense of order and glanced fearfully at me before returning to their computer monitors.

Noticing both desks were empty, I tossed my coat onto one and discarded my scarf atop a monitor, pulling the gloves from my slim hands with irritable, jerky motions. I glanced up to see movement in the corner of my eye and saw Justin fast at hand, carrying an armful of the magazines and newspapers I read every morning and a styrofoam tray of coffees which was leaking onto the carpet.

“You’re not Michael,” I peered at him, failing to understand why he was fetching the coffees and nobody was manning the desk. I asked as much in brief rapport.

“I’m not interested,” I said, the moment Justin opened his mouth. “I’ll need to get three of the editors on the phone before lunch to discuss the main article, arrange a time to oversee the shoot with Ryan Gosling and confirm the appointment with my lawyer.”

By the time I had settled myself at my desk, Justin had rather haphazardly selected the least leaking coffee from its holder and placed it atop a coaster on my desk; then moved to the underlit table where he began uneasily spreading out my papers and magazines, one by one.

“I don’t have all day,” I snapped, picking up the handle of the receiver. “Where’s that new girl? I need Jessica on the phone.”

“She’s just, uh, cleaning up,” he managed, abandoning the last of the pile and rushing to accommodate. He consulted the contact list on his monitor, quickly dialed an extension and sent the call through to my office, where the light on the handset buzzed silently.

Madeline came into view round the corner, trudging on ankle-length leather boots she had stuffed her fat feet into. She wore a tight black skirt like a band around her bulging gut and had restrained the wild curls she called hair with a purple scrunchie. The sleeveless white top she wore bore the stains of coffee on her midriff and the dampness of perspiration underneath her arms. As she came closer, I realised she had tried to wear it inside out; but being white fabric, it was transparent from either side.

“Madeline!” I barked, startling her for she hadn’t expected my presence so early. “See to it that you are properly clothed before lunchtime. I won’t have you delivering my food on your clothes as well as my desk.”

She took a great breath; a sigh and gasp in one. “I’m sorry, I - “

I dismissed her with a wave of my hand and picked up the blinking receiver.

“Yes?”

“Hello, sir. You wanted to discuss - “

“Let’s cut that article about sports socks; I hate the way they feel on my ankles and so will the common consumer. I don’t care much for the mention on the thirty-sixth page; let’s try to aim for something a bit more  _ special _ . Ryan Gosling’s coming in for his shoot today, correct?”

“That’s right,” she quipped meekly, bent over a pad and striking several items off her list.

“I can’t make it,” I said not without a trace of hesitation, for I was all too aware of my inflamed hormones at the moment. “You’ll have to send the other editor in my place.”

“Mark? Nicholas?”

“No, no,” I shook my head. “The tall one who looks like a bean sprout.”

“Oh, him,” Jessica replied, rolling her eyes and hoping I wouldn’t see her.

“Yes,  _ him _ ,” I repeated. “Find  _ him _ .” I quickly hung up. “Madeline!”

I checked my e-mails, the SMS inbox on my smartphone and the cuticles on my right hand in less time than it took for that heaving bovine to make her way off the computer, take the five strides to my office and nearly stumble the stiletto heel of her boots in the thick, soft carpeting.

“How may I help you, sir?” she asked with deference, rubbing her clammy fat, freckled hands together. It did not fail to come to my attention that while she was coming across as subservient, she was holding back tears which threatened to emerge if pushed too hard.

I watched her breathe in and out, adjusting the bra strap which peeked out from her top, smoothing the black lacquer that was her skirt and running a tongue over her teeth, unvarnished and tinted yellow with the faintest snaggletooth.

“I wish to purchase a series of books for my sister’s children, preferably in French and something they’d enjoy. Trixie’s new collar is ready to be picked up from Tiffany’s, along with the shipment of pet food she likes and the cat bed from the place.”

“I’ll - I’ll go grab a pen to write all that down,” Madeline scurried out of sight, but I had no interest in pausing.

“I’ll need to arrange flights for London immediately, seeing as I’ll be attending my father’s funeral. I’ll want to stay someplace in the city and be prepared with luggage to fly out tomorrow evening and return the next day.”

“That’s - “ Madeline scribbled wildly with a pen on a notepad, finding it useless. She ducked behind her desk to snatch another.

“Michael!” I called, though Justin answered my call. “I’m leaving for lunch. See that all I’ve asked for is accomplished in a timely fashion without any calls to disturb me.”

I marched past Madeline who gaped like a dying fish as Justin hurried to fetch me my coat from the closet which housed it. I waited a second with an impatient sigh, snatched the silk-lined cashmere coat from his outstretched hands without a further word and marched down the corridor, separating a pair of co-workers who darted into their cubicles upon seeing me, each face panicked as they returned to their desks.

When I emerged onto the vast sidewalk which spread out for civilians to stand and gape at the towering pinnacle that was Conde Nast, I strode past them and noticed that among the throng of yellow cabs, stretch limousines and Cadillac sedans my car was nowhere to be found. I flipped open my cell phone and dialled the office.

“Michael!” Justin’s heart bolted into his throat as, awash with paperwork and face flushed with sweat, he turned to Madeline who was busy answering another phone line. “I do not see my car and I wish to leave now!”

Returning home that night, I lay out on the comfy leather couch in the living room and watched  _ Entourage _ from the wall-mounted TV screen above. Quietly I sipped apple juice from a glass I placed on the table while I viewed the cast members flaunt their bromance, glancing at the laptop I had set up on my desk. Just now I had received an e-mail from my office of the itinerary confirming various dates and details for my trip to London.

I glanced up when I heard the front door open, saw Trixie scamper from beneath the couch where she hid, out into the foyer to startle the guest and disappear further.

“Justin! If you’re not careful, Trixie will trip you up and I’ll have no use for an assistant who’s broken his neck. You may enter.”

Reluctantly, Justin stepped forth into the apartment. He glanced around in awe, carrying cord handles of carrier bags from various pet stores and dry cleaning encased in plastic wrap.

“Pass me those,” I decreed, rising from the couch but only taking the pet items. He ducked into the foyer to hang up the dry cleaning in the closet. “Trixie!”

There was no movement nor sound but for my padded footsteps on the carpet and Justin’s loafers clacking on the hardwood floors.

“Justin! Come in here. You’re scaring Trixie away.”

I settled myself on the couch as Justin perched himself awkwardly in the corner of the living room.

“You may take a seat.”

He felt the leather of one of the reclining armchairs before settling in it. He grinned a little when he relaxed and noticed my abrupt expression of distaste. “Be quiet.”

Incrementally, Trixie stepped inside the living room, not at all scared but ready to bolt at any time.

“Don’t make any sudden movements or noises,” I warned. Slowly, I knelt to the floor and reached into the carrier bag, retrieving the pet collar. I beckoned her forth and timidly, taking her time as only felines can do, she let me unfasten the collar she wore and attach the new one I had purchased at such great cost.

The packet of cat food shuffled when I slowly rose and she bounded off, headed for the kitchen where her platinum bowl sat on an ornate tray.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” I said more to myself. I moved past Justin before he could formulate a reply and turned to him. “Thank you, Justin. That’ll be all.”

When he had closed the door to my apartment, I sauntered into the kitchen and patted Trixie on the neck, audibly crunching her cat biscuits and purring in return.

I entered my ensuite and turned on the gleaming taps, adding in bubble bath from a cupboard beneath the sink. The steaming hot water quickly rose with the surface filled with bubbles. I left the bedroom door ajar for Trixie to pop through if she wanted to sleep on the bed, but shut the bathroom door as I removed my clothes, each piece of the expensive suit like armor. The cufflinks and smart phone and cufflinks and belt, tailored jacket and shirt and pants, finally stepping out of the black boxer briefs and kicking them into a corner where, no doubt, all of the aforementioned items would be sent down for dry cleaning tomorrow by the maids and returned overnight by an assistant.

I turned off the lights and plunged the heated tiles into darkness, sinking into the tub with a sigh and enduring the stifling heat, the bubbles which suffocated and the fragrant aromatics which filled my nostrils. It was silent, dark and soothing.

When I emerged dripping wet and covered with bubbles, I padded into the rain shower and turned it on full blast, eliminating the sluggishness from me and washing me clean.

I wrapped my soaking body in a terrycloth robe, tying the robe and padding out in fluffy slippers, onto the soft carpet, cool air-conditioning and serene silence. Trixie was curled up asleep; but when I emerged she was already awake, though less alert than had she thought I was someone new to meet. I patted her affectionately and she splayed out like a spider and curled into a ball, purring contentedly.

I closed the door to my bedroom and stared at the reflection in the wall-mounted TV opposite my bed, barely lit up by the moonlight cast through the venetian blinds. I was forty in a few days time and my body had grown considerably thicker, no longer slim or supple as once I was in my youth. There were fine lines that no cream would erase.


	34. First-class

“Justin!” I called from my desk. “I’ll need you to accompany me to London this weekend.”

Madeline appeared, clutching a notepad and pen, wearing a peasant skirt which skimmed the tops of the stiletto boots in which she had encased her feet.

“You want Justin to come with you?” she repeated, as dumb as a cow.

“Are you deaf?” I glanced at my planner. “Find him now. And Madeline? Order my lunch.”

Madeline rushed to her desk as fast as her stilettos would take her, placing first the order to S&W for my lunch and glancing up as Justin emerged from the corridor, having been sent to retrieve the current Book for the month’s issue.

“He wants you to go to London with him,” hissed Madeline, collecting her chunky, wool-knit coat from the cabinet which was separate from the one which housed my cashmere.

“What?” Justin eyed his boss who was currently engrossed in a phone call. “What do you mean, ‘go to London’?”

“I have to fetch his lunch,” Madeline sped down the corridor with due haste.

Wiping his sweaty palms on his suit pants and cursing himself for doing so, he took a gulp of courage and strode into his boss’ office, whom glanced up as he approached.

“Yes?” I held my hand over the receiver.

“Um, it can wait,” he winced, realising with horror he interrupted my phone call.

I left him there to wait until he scrambled to answer a ringing phone line, typing up the message and returning to my desk. I was no longer occupied with someone else.

“Madeline said you wanted me to come with you to London,” he began, his throat dry. “Um, I’m afraid I can’t afford - “

“Don’t be idle. Of course it’s at my expense; I require the services of an assistant while I’m abroad. You don’t think just because I’m at a funeral that progress on the current issue will ground to a halt, do you?”

He shook his head madly. I consulted the incoming calls on my cell phone and dismissed them.

“Book yourself a ticket so that you’ll arrive before I do and can ensure that the concierge at Claridge’s understands my orders for the room.”

“Yes, sir,” he stood uncomfortably, doubtless sweating inside his pinstripe suit where I wondered how much hair he had and where.

“That’s all,” I dismissed him and tried to ignore the throbbing heat that belabored my ethics.

“Sir. Where would you like me to book my room?”

I paused a moment too long, then glanced down at the blotter on my desk.

“Claridge’s, I suppose. Find a room that’s acceptable.”

On the eve of my departure, the office worked itself into a frenzy preparing me for my flight. My clothes were ironed and folded between sheets of acid-free tissue paper in many discreetly monogrammed suitcases which found their way to the airport before I did.

“I’ll require your full co-operation while I’m away,” I found myself saying to Madeline. “If Justin proves inferior, I’ll rely on you to settle my affairs. And you won’t be in the country beside me! So don’t think of this as an extended vacation.”

I swept past her before she could respond, taking the coat she held in her outstretched hands without a thank-you and headed down the corridor. When I reached street level I saw my limousine parked at the kerb and nodded to him as he held the door open for me.

I poured myself some Pellegrino from a bottle kept in the mini fridge, settling myself on the leather and sipping the tasty liquid from a crystal glass as I glanced out the tinted windows. When we approached the concourse where JFK came into sight, I flipped open my mobile and dialed the office.

“Madeline, make sure Trixie is fed well while I’m away. Remind the chefs and maids not to feed her too much or she’ll begin to gain weight. Make sure they don’t use that cleaning fluid that makes her bowl stink. She won’t let anyone groom her so don’t have them try it. Also, make sure the vet is fully aware that I’m away. I’ll need extra supervision on that cat.”

Madeline was frantically transcribing, belief suspended for she had never met someone so singularly concentrated on their cat.

“In which room at Claridge’s is Justin staying?” I asked.

“I’ll just check,” said she, and paused long enough for me to grow bored. “He’s in the standard suite.”

I hung up and readied to exit the vehicle as we parked in front of the terminal. I strode among the commuters, no more conspicuous than a businessman in a suit, carrying a laptop in his briefcase. I strolled through security, passed customs without any declarations and waited in the upstairs, first-class lounge amid scurrying businessmen who chatted on cell phones and effusive bartenders who tended to their liquid lunches.

“Daniel?” came an amazed reply.

I glanced up and saw Will Truman, the principal partner at his law firm who had aged quite a bit since last I saw him. Then again, so had I. He shook hands with me and with some amazement asked where I was headed.

“London,” I smiled, in what was his fascination with meeting me again.

“Business or pleasure?” he asked slyly.

I refrained from comment. “A bit of both; I suppose.”

The flight attendant read out over the intercom that our flight was soon to leave.

“I’m meeting my client, Karen Walker. She’s a real… card.”

“What a coincidence,” I smiled, handing my ticket to the effusive flight stewardess.

I was lead to the private suites in first class, each comprised of a capsule hub which contained a small bed, rotating mini bar and flat screen TV with wireless headphones.

“No champagne,” I told the stewardess, who kindly closed the privacy barrier behind her.

Once the flight had taken off, I emerged from the vestibule only to be surrounded by the bevy of first-class passengers climbing the stairs to the lounge. There was a circular lit bar tended to by several bartenders who mixed drinks for patrons, while others socialised, their Chanel perfume and champagne adding to the laughter.

“Will,” I smiled, noticing how nicely he dressed in black and jeans. “Enjoying the flight?”

“As much as I can,” he grinned, pearly-white ahoy. “Usually I’m never in first class unless the client’s paying.”

I laughed at this for he really was a cheeky kind of character. Just as he excused himself to use the bathroom, I placed my empty glass of water on the counter and sat on one of the couches, consulting my smart phone. Lists of unanswered calls, text messages and e-mails filled my screen, yet I turned off the ringer and stuffed it in my pocket.

Will was staying at the Langham as I found out, so when the plane arrived we swapped business cards and I promised to stay in touch. The chauffeur whom waved my placard greeted me as I passed and held open my door so I could enter the back seat without delay.


	35. Firing squad

The Royal Suite at Claridge’s was blue-hued and as royal as one could expect, with fine linens and smooth carpeting, beautiful hardwood floors and a fire crackling in the grate, champagne poured on my arrival and a liveried, white-gloved butler to greet me.

“Good evening, sir,” he took my coat, scarf and gloves and hung them on the hat rack.

I flipped open my cell phone and dialed Justin.

“Find your way to my suite,” I hung up, then turned to the butler. “That’ll be all.”

I strolled the length of the apartment, curtains drawn over the landscape windows which kept in the heat and the fire burned quietly in one corner. I heard the door click open and busied myself with pouring a glass of water.

“Justin, come in,” I said, glancing up. “I’ll need you to transcribe some documents.”

He wore his dark hair gelled, pinstripe suit fitted to suit his manly figure and sat opposite me on the couch as I consulted a sheaf of papers which he had thoughtfully provided upon his arrival.

I scheduled meetings and appointments, oversaw the necessities of life at the magazine and ensured that nobody would be working any less without my direct supervision there to enforce such a regime.

He shuffled nervously on the couch and I handed him a glass of water. “Thanks.”

I watched him glance around at the suite, no doubt awed by the magnificence and asked, “Do you know why I invited you here tonight?”

He shook his head no. I stood astride him, taking the glass out of his hand and placing it on the coffee table. I sat beside him and stared at him so much that he felt compelled to look away, but went silent when he felt my hand running up the fabric of his leg.

“Mr - “

His mouth was on mine and I stroked the supple gentleness of his skin, how young and alive he felt! I stroked his thigh encased as it was in tight pinstripe, my fingers crawling not unlike a spider to his crotch, where he gasped in pleasure when I ticked the erect shaft protruding forth, straining at his zipper. I eased his legs apart and sat between them, running my hands down his thighs to where his manhood strained urgent.

I unzipped his fly, reaching in amidst the tight black briefs to retrieve his dick, pent up with dew at the head, so hard that I felt myself combust, give in to the pleasure - 

I woke up with a gasp and realised that I had fallen asleep. It was past two a.m. in the morning and with a groan I glanced at the empty bottle of champagne on the counter.

It was only a dream.

The funeral was briefer than I had imagined; my sister was in attendance with her husband Remy and twin children, who were nearly five. Our mother watched over the proceedings, her bearing very regal and correct, looking disapprovingly at us through pursed lips and acknowledging us with a curt flicker of recognition.

Alistair, Earl of Yorkshire, retired to his rooms long after but for what was so expedient was the reading of my father’s will, required for efficiency’s sake since the title was to be handed over upon his death.

We crowded into the living room where I had felt my childhood and enjoyed my upbringing, where my father’s eyes stared down on me from his portrait atop the fireplace. My mother perched atop a chaise longue without no small bearing of regal manner, my sister sat upon a gilded chair with her hands folded in her lap and legs crossed at the ankle.

I perched upon a seat that I claimed beside Alistair, for the lawyers and officials had taken all that was left. I stiffened beside me, but he was indulgent in the proceedings.

“Charles made mention of a number of beneficiaries, not the least was his wife, Ruth,” spoke the wizened solicitor, nodding to the empress who icily bade he continue.

“Right you are, Dowager Countess. I have a personal letter to the effect that he grant the entirety of his estate to his wife in trust, to be dispersed among his children at length.”

“Mother,” interrupted Grace.

“Do be quiet,” Ruth replied, quick as a whip. “He’s not finished yet.”

“In this letter he also commands that Alistair be confirmed as his successor to the title Earl, estate and lands to which he holds and monies derived forthwith which equal an exactitude of several hundred million pounds.”

Even through British compartment and comportment, Alistair failed to hide his glee.

“He addresses the former Lord Daniel in a private message - “

“I don’t mind,” I waved away the concession. “Let’s hear it.”

He stumbled a little, then, “Charles writes that he is of good health and sound mind when to you he composes this narrative. It comes to him as a disappointment having had you for a son, who abdicates his responsibilities in favour of economic toil where your merit would be laid to waste…”

He paused to clear his throat, the only audible noise besides the crackling fireplace.

“However, he applauds your entrepreneurial spirit in times of the most severe hardship one should have to face, coming from one of our race. He signed it with his name, offered his best wishes to both you and your sister, and ends this soliloquy.”

My mother turned to me with a stern gaze, then rose unaided from her chair. Her chin proudly upward, hand upon her cane and gathered her shawls about her.

She looked upon me as she had never done so before. In the years that had withered my mother’s heart and soul, I swear a flicker of recognition came to life in those watchful eyes of hers. She smiled slightly and placed a hand over mine.

“Had you been born American, you would’ve taken the world by storm.”

She sauntered away, all eyes on her as she cast a baleful glance to Alistair.

“Come, come, Earl,” she chided, rapping her cane and making us all jump.

Alistair followed at her heels like a scolded chihuahua.

“I’m glad that’s not me,” I thought to myself, then rose and saw myself out.

The royal suite was still as lavish and appointed as I had left it, refreshed by an arsenal of maids who changed sheets, plumped cushions and prepared a meal served by the butler upon my arrival.

“Good evening, sir,” came his routine reply. “You have a young man here to see you.”

He excused himself and closed the door when he left. I walked through the foyer, half-expecting Will to have miraculously found my room number, but it wasn’t him.

It was Justin. He wore the pinstripe suit in which I remembered him best, carrying an armful of binders and tucking a cell phone closed into his jacket pocket.

I wondered what it would be like to be young again; to have the feel and grip of sweat-stained sheets in my mouth as I was ravaged from behind; to choke on another’s member at their behest; to savagely kiss and lick and touch like I was madly in love.

“You wanted to discuss the three covers sent over for the Ryan Gosling shoot,” Justin poured me a Pellegrino and handed me the glass. His fingers touched mine and for an instant, a jolt of pleasure swept through me that reminded me of how I had once lusted after loins such as his.

“Very well,” I remarked coldly, sitting opposite him and watching him gaze at the binders in his lap. I couldn’t help but glance lower. “Continue.”

I watched him shuffle on the couch, comfortably aligning so that the outline of his crotch pressed against the tight confines of his pinstripe pants. He rose all of a sudden, and I was aghast to watch him stand in front of me, legs apart as he unbuckled his belt loose, jangling and unzip his pants, so that he wore only his black boxer briefs with the hems of his tailored jacket hanging against the waistband. The trail of black hair led down as he fingered the waistband with his thumbs; I inhaled as he pulled down his underwear to reveal a shock of dark hair, his balls laden and his thick dick hanging limp like a bull cock.

“Do you want it?” he teased, when I glanced up to see the merest hint of a smirk on his features. His eyebrows were raised appraisingly, gesturing at his thatch, and I complied.


	36. Will T.

“The mansion spans several acres, with unhindered views to the seaside,” said the realtor, showing me around the property as I resumed my cold, icy facade reserved specially for service people. “It has three bedrooms, four bathrooms and a superb backyard opening out onto a koi pond, waterfall spa, expansive pool and elaborate garden…”

The estate was splendid. As the electronic gates slid apart, a curved driveway wound around a fountain, to where a four-car garage was situated on the left. The house itself was two-storied, with tall Victorian columns supporting the entryway and lined with manicured box hedges and fragrant flowers planted underneath the arched white windows.

“As you can see, it could do with a woman’s touch,” the realtor had joked, to which she had received a blank stare and resumed her professional demeanour. Our heels had tapped across the onyx foyer, where two separate staircases led upstairs and under which, the double doors to the veranda beyond. Before that, on either side were discreet entrances to the guest bathrooms, chicly fit with showers and tubs and vanity mirrors.

“This is the dining room.” It had brilliant views, the best of the sunshine and an empty fireplace in one corner with a mirror over the mantlepiece. “Do you entertain often?”

“Not enough often,” came the curt reply.

The kitchen was open-plan, with a staff dining area facing the terraced garden outside. It was equipped with all modern appliances, enough to run a restaurant or two, and with an island counter made maneuvering for serving parties easy enough. The staff dining table could be moved to accommodate a full-scale bar and counter, with the right accoutrements.

If the left wing comprised the kitchen and dining room, the right wing held host to a hallowed, richly decorated library, study and living room, with another fireplace facing the many glazed windows viewing the splendour of boundless gardenia.

Directly upstairs was a rec room in which one could serve a group of friends to watch on a cinema-sized TV with many recliners and blackout curtains to rid the room of light. To the left, comprised the private quarters of the master suite, with an ensuite larger than most Manhattan studio apartments and its own fireplace, and a bedroom which looked out onto the backyard and again, out onto the front pavement and beyond.

To the right, at the very end was an ensuite for the second bedroom which was situated adjacent, and near this was another room for servant quarters, drab in decor but functional for its purposes. All this for mere millions, as the editor-in-chief of Details.

“I have to say, you made a perfect choice for your home,” nodded the realtor, as I exchanged my business card. “I’m looking forward to doing business with you again.”

I flipped open my cell phone and reached Madeline at the office.

“I’ll need a full complement of staff trained for my new home, as well as all the property and legal official documents to be signed off. Arrange for the purchase of a Mercedes, in black, to be delivered as my personal car. I’ll want it all up and running within three months.”

Never mind that Madeline had no clue I had a residence outside Manhattan, knew which documents to which I was referring or when I wanted to meet the interior designers who would expertly and expensively furnish my estate to within the limits of the residential code - I was adamant that everything be perfect.

I glanced up when Justin entered my office, wearing as usual one of his many pinstripe suits which fit his masculine build, snugly encased his crotch and accented his taut rear.

“Yes?”

“There’s a Mr Truman to see you, sir. He’s invited you to lunch.”

I paused for a moment. “Very well. Send him through.”

Will was punctual and polite, beaming as I stood to shake his hand.

“Daniel. Good to see you again,” he flashed pearly whites and glanced around at the decor of my office. “Nicely done! You know, I have a friend who works in interior design if you’re thinking of sprucing it up a little.”

“Oh, really?” I glanced around at the minimalist space. “I don’t really pay much attention to it. Justin! Find my coat before I find the fine print in your contract which tells me it is your job to do so.”

We strode into the anteroom, where I shrugged into my silk-lined cashmere coat and wrapped a scarf around my neck.

“You run this place roughshod, huh?” he grinned, then shrugged.

“It’ll go to hell in a handbasket if I don’t,” I smiled, endeared by his sarcastic wit. “Madeline, book us a table for two at Per Se. I expect to see my driver outside and ready.”

We chatted amiably as we walked down the corridor, staffers more surprised than usual to see me walking side-by-side with a potential mate whom I was considering. The truth was, he was rather funny, handsome and earned almost more than me as principal partner at his law firm.

“Who’s this friend who can spruce up my apartment?” I smiled, much more relaxed in my demeanour once we ensconced in the elevator vestibule, free from subordinate eyes.

“Grace Adler. She works out of - “ he smiled, staring into my eyes. “Forgive me for saying this, but - “

He leant forward and kissed me, in an embrace I was surprised to find I was content with. It was nice, but I had already prepared myself for the arrival of the elevator and had hurried before him through the throng of employees waiting to board.

Lunch at Per Se was as usual. He offered to pay, which I didn’t at all mind as money was no longer an object. He told me that he was single and lived alone in a sprawling complex, but was looking to settle down someday. I, by comparison, had recently purchased a home in a gated community out in the suburbs, and this was a topic in which he could suggest his friend Grace Adler to suggest some patterns and pieces.

“Well, that sounds like a plan,” I hadn’t yet hired an interior decorator, but with the reputation Will was selling she sounded adequate for the task. “I’ll get in touch with her sometime during the week to set up an appointment.”

“She usually operates alone, but she brings along her assistant - Karen Walker.”

“She’s the client you were visiting in London, is that right?” I asked, oblivious to the waiter’s eavesdropping as he replenished our glasses of sparkling water.

“Right,” he speared a forkful of vegetables and swallowed. “She can be a bit… well - loopy would be putting it nicely. But you treat your staff nicer than she does, so I’m sure you’ll have that in common.”

I glanced up, shocked at his saying to my face of my less than perfect treatment of my subordinates. Yet, it was true and I knew it. I smiled wryly and took a sip of water.

I was at home in the suburbs, seated at my writing desk positioned over views of the gardenia in the front patio when I saw a limousine pull up and two middle-aged women emerge before the chauffeur could reach their door.

“Welcome,” I descended the staircase and extended my hand. “I’m Daniel.”

“Hi, I’m Grace, Grace Adler,” she both snorted and smiled, tall and ungainly, dressed eclectically. “Wow. You have such an amazing house - “

“Honey, honey - “ interrupted the woman by her side, a perfect prima donna replica of Fifth Avenue society wives with her lacquered bun, designer clothes and flawless makeup. “He doesn’t want to hear your life story. If he wanted to hear something interesting come out of your mouth, it would be your reasoning for wearing that skirt!”

She laughed uproariously at this, with an entitlement and disregard for pleasantries that evaded her. I was not surprised to find out she was wildly promiscuous, an alcoholic and medically dependent. “I’m Karen Walker, honey.”

Having spent most of her time in Park Avenue abodes, it was clear Karen knew what furnishings I wanted, but had no interest in communicating any of these ideas to me. Grace tried her best, but although she missed the mark more often than not, I felt a human emotion considerable to conscience that told me I should hire her so Will wouldn’t feel so put out. This love thing was getting on my nerves - professionally, as well.


	37. Dinner party denouement

“Madeline, I’m hosting a small dinner party tomorrow night and I’d like to discuss the details with you.”

Hurrying in without a further word, Madeline perched atop her teetering stiletto boots, pen poised over pad. She had lost a great deal of weight, begun to apply makeup that hid the worst of her features and wore expensive clothing which accented her figure.

“I will be inviting Mr Truman with some friends of his, along with their spouses. Inform the chef that lobster thermidor followed by baked alaska for dessert. Have the guest room prepared in case one of them isn’t capable of driving home.”

Madeline raised an eyebrow. This was code in case Mr Truman wanted to spend the night, but reside in separate quarters - everyone knew the guests in attendance were all rich to a degree and would easily be able to afford a taxicab or limousine ride home.

“Have my suit dry cleaned for tomorrow night, and I’ll want to wear the cufflinks I saw in the men’s fashion catalogue. Find a pianist to play classical music throughout the evening. And Madeline? Order my lunch. I’d like to eat it before the next presidential election.” Madeline hurried off before I could rebuke her further.

My fingers flew across the keyboard as I composed e-mails, thumb aching in desperation to send SMS messages and hand flexing as I scribbled yet another signature on a document primed to be sent around the office. The party was due to start in a few hours and I had yet to leave the office, due to a crisis which had demanded my complete attention, which meant that Justin and Madeline were here to stay until I left.

When it had been amicably resolved, I rose from my desk and Justin hurried to collect my coat and scarf, which I took with a flourish as I passed him through the anteroom.

“Madeline, I’ll need you to attend the party tonight to greet the guests. That’ll be all.”

I sauntered past without looking back, knowing that Madeline was agape and dumbfounded, unaware through such fastidious organising for a dinner for six that she would be promptly required to be groomed, outfitted and on call for a Friday night.

The gravel crunched under the tyres as the corporate car stopped in front of the entryway. Madeline opened the door and stepped out into the moonlit evening, surrounded by fragrant gardenia rampant amidst manicured box hedges and a fountain playing in the centre of the driveway. Her boss’ house was elaborate, expensive and exquisite, she thought. Holding the hem of her blood-red sheath, she tottered unsteadily on her heels up the few steps underneath the archway and rang the doorbell, answered by the butler.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he nodded once to her, then bade her through. He criticised without comment the diamonds which pinned her ringlets above her head, the makeup which accented the curves of her face and the slim gold bangles she wore on her wrist for tonight. Madeline consulted a clipboard and made a few adjustments with her pen.

“How are the preparations?” she asked nervously.

The butler led her through the expansive foyer and into the dining room, where several maids were readjusting champagne flutes and silver cutlery, murmuring greetings to the housekeeper who oversaw them all.

“It’s all very late notice, but we pulled through,” he commented, his mouth a thin line.

The kitchen was busy with smells and sights and sounds fit for a three-starred Michelin chef. The lobsters were squirming in their pans while the chef adjusted the heat, added spices to one dish and bent over to check the progress of the baked alaska.

“Any problems here?” demanded the butler, aloof and regal.

“All according to schedule,” smiled the chef, quick to return to his meal prep.

Madeline took in the scope and splendour of her boss’ mansion as the butler led her upstairs and across a corridor to where the guest room was laid with fresh, lavender-scented linens, towels and soaps.

“It looks so inviting,” Madeline ran her pudgy, manicured hand over the arm of a club chair, fabric picked in hues of blue and gold while the butler’s nose wrinkled.

“Come this way, dear,” he insisted, showing her to the guest ensuite bathroom.

Marble tiled rain shower, porcelain toilet hidden in an alcove and lit vanity mirror positioned above a decorative, filigree sink completed the expensive redecoration.

“Amazing,” she breathed. She had only seen such fixtures in interior decorating magazines.

“Indeed,” he soured. “And what will you be doing?”

Madeline consulted a binder filled with laminated, glossy pictures of the guests and their names. “I’ll be greeting the guests by name, taking their coats and helping them with their needs, however small.”

“Don’t run in those heels,” he glanced to the Manolo stilettos atop which she so precariously perched. “You wouldn’t want to trip and fall; not in that dress.”

He consulted his earpiece and hurried downstairs, with Madeline hot on his heels. Just as he reached the front door and held it open, he smiled and said, “Good evening, sir.”

I shrugged off my coat and handed it to whoever took it first, glancing around at the marble onyx foyer and taking note of the precise placement of so many vases of flowers atop console tables or plinths, dotted around the mansion.

“Good evening, sir,” Madeline stepped forward, clipboard at the ready but I had already tuned her out. “Everything is on schedule - “

“I’ll be retiring to my bedroom to change before the guests arrive. See that I’m not disturbed before then,” I rose the staircase to their watching eyes on my back and turned a corridor, through double mahogany doors into my private quarters.

The master ensuite was superbly outfitted, luxe and expansive for a mansion befitting its size and splendour with a marble tub in the center, much like a super hot tub. With great relief and a sigh, I submerged myself in the steaming hot bubbles after discarding my suit and underclothes, delighting in the scented soaps, fragrant flowers and fireplace crackling nearby. I showered quickly in the rain shower which blasted me wide awake with its numerous jets, tied a fluffy terry cloth robe around my person and padded out on white slippers into the adjoining master bedroom.

A four-poster king sized bed was made heavy with cushions and pillows, tight white sheets and a rich blue-and-gold coverlet. Red velvet curtains drawn with gold lacquer hid the moonlight as I dressed into a tight-fitting suit, one of many custom creations from Oscar de la Renta, slipping into lacquered black shoes, adjusting a blue tie and threading cufflinks which I were surprised to find were the correct items of jewelry I had requested. Either Justin or Madeline were learning their job quicker than I had anticipated.

I stepped over to the window where my secretary desk was positioned, pulling aside the curtain to glimpse a pair of headlights turn the driveway. The guests had begun to arrive.

“Good evening, Ms Adler, Mr Markus,” Madeline fake-smiled as she showed guests Grace and Leo into the foyer. They were married Jews, surprised at the splendour of the place and excited, warm and friendly people. Madeline thawed considerably in their presence.

“You did a good job, babe,” Leo’s eyes were wide and crinkled into a smile as he held Grace close for a kiss.

“Oh, st-ohp it,” she beamed, wearing a red dress with spaghetti straps which accented her thin, beanpole figure. She noticed Madeline’s outfit. “Hey! We’re wearing the same!”

Madeline huddled close for a shared glimpse of camaraderie before she heard footsteps on the staircase and straightened to attention.

“H-h-hey! Daniel, my man!” Leo walked forward and embraced her boss in a hug that was painful even for Madeline to watch. “This house - wow! It’s awesome, dude!”

“Dude?” Grace wrinkled her eyebrow, then walked forth to shake Daniel’s hand. “Hi. It’s good to see you again. I like your suit!”

“Thank you.” His eyes ranged over Madeline, who wore a dress not unlike his guest. “Madeline! Do stop staring and ask our guests if they would like a drink.”

“We’ll have club soda - oh wait - “ Grace leaned forward to Madeline. “The booze is free, right?”

Taken aback, Grace retrieved herself with a snort and patted Madeline on the shoulder. “We’ll go easy on you, I promise. It’s Karen you’ve got to save the liquor for.”

True to form, only moments later a limousine pulled up and while Grace and Leo were ensconced in the kitchen where a liquor cabinet and bartender manning the drinks had been set up, Daniel seethed impatiently beside a nervous Madeline while the butler came forward to hold open the door.

“Madeline, were you made aware that Ms Adler would be wearing a similar dress?”

Her reply was cut short as a woman with her head turned towards the limo entered, a sight for sore eyes with her dark lacquered hair, hourglass figure swathed in Chanel red and fascination with life evident in her dilated pupils and sharp, rapid speech.

“And stay there!” she screeched, huddling herself as though in the company of mites.

“Good evening, Mrs Walker - “

“You? Who are you?” she glanced at the butler who gingerly took her fur coat and Madeline, whom she disdainfully looked down upon, not unlike Cruella de Vil. “Well - “

“Nice to see you again, Karen.” Daniel walked forward and kissed her hand, whereupon she blushed like a schoolgirl and waved him away. Madeline was shocked.

“I see your maid has stolen her style tips from me,” Karen walked arm-in-arm with Daniel as she marched into the dining room. Her voice was muffled, but could still be heard from afar. “Grace! You look like the maid!”

Madeline snapped to attention as the butler hurried off to deal with this latest addition to the party list. She held open the door and met Will face-to-face, followed by Jack McFarland.

“Wiiiiil,” he strung out in a long sentence, pithy and whiny despite his groomed exterior. “Ooh, look at you, honey! You’re fabulous!”

Madeline blushed as Jack spun her around, but she insisted she take their coats.

“Jack, Jack,” Will ushered he calm down. “It’s only one night - “ they walked off.

Madeline ensured that the coats were hung correctly on their pegs on the hat rack, looked wistfully out at the lush gardenia on the front patio beyond the glazed windows, and walked towards the dining room, where merriment and laughter met all.

“Madeline!”

She heard her boss bark and ran like a scolded dog, into the room where perfume mixed with propriety, occasionally broken by Jack’s whine, Karen’s hyena laugh or Grace’s off-colour jokes. Daniel glanced at Madeline’s bulky figured swathed in Prada red before turning away.

“Inform the chef we’d like to eat. Promptly, would be the ideal procedure.”

“Oh, you’re horrific!” beamed Karen, taking her seat opposite Jack and laughing with cruel, derisive candor. “I can’t keep a maid for more than a week. No wonder you picked him, Will - he’s just like me!”

Will grinned and laid the napkin over his lap, slightly at ease. I took note of this and sipped my water without comment, turning to the servers who came into the room carrying plates of lobster thermidor.

“Can I offer anybody wine?” asked the butler, poised with a bottle of champagne.

“Honey. You’ll need to give me something stronger,” commented Karen. “Barkeep!”

“Karen, you need to tone it down,” Grace gave her evils, motioning to me. “You’ve already had your boob out for display this afternoon already.”

“Honey, I wasn’t drunk then,” replied Karen, bamboozled. “Waiter! Some whiskey, pronto!”

During a lull in the conversation, Will excused himself and Grace followed him out to talk with him on a matter. Seeing the butler was engaged, Madeline followed at bay in case they required something - 

“... dontcha think?” came Grace’s excited reply.

Madeline stood on the eaves of the foyer, where Grace was perched atop the arm of one of club chairs she had picked out.

“I don’t know,” replied Will, insouciant. “He’s a bit mean to his staff.”

“Not as bad as Karen,” reassured Grace. “Come on! He’s loaded, he’s British and - “

“Butt out, Grace,” came Will’s fevered reply. Madeline was quick to hurry away as she heard incoming footsteps. “This isn’t your problem. to deal with.”

Later that night as the evening drew to a close, Madeline pasted a fake smile on her face and handed the departing guests their coats with a goodbye.

“Honey, you might want to re-think that whole…” Karen gestured vaguely in Madeline’s direction to mean anything including her hair, makeup and outfit. “Oh, never mind… “

Grace and Leo were exuberant; the former of who shot Will a dirty look before departing. Jack was effusive, brilliant in his tirade but switched conversations like a dog with two masters. Madeline watched out of the corner of her eye as Will grimaced to the side as her boss landed a peck on his cheek, insisting they would ‘catch up soon’ and closing the door behind him.

Silence. The butler had long since retired to oversee the staff and their cleanup, where the tinkle of cutlery and plates could just be heard over the moving of chairs, rustle of wine-stained tablecloths and stoking of the fire. Her boss remained upright, glazed as he watched the cars pull out of the driveway and onto the quiet lane. She knew better by now not to interrupt his reverie.

“Sir,” the butler proceeded forth, breaking that particular spell. “The help have almost finished packing up. Can I make you anything before bed?”

“That’ll be all for tonight, thank you. Madeline, find yourself lodgings in the servant quarters. There’s no sense driving home at this late hour if you’re exhausted.”

She watched him rise the staircase, hand on the railing. He seemed dour and worn himself, as though the life had been sucked out of him. But in only an instant, as his bearing corrected itself and he raised himself forth, with all the pomp and circumstance a man of correct comportment should behave.

“Is there anything you need help with?” Madeline asked, her heels clacking on the onyx floor. Her head ached and she was tired; her red gown creased and feet sore.

“I can manage it from here,” the butler eyed her makeup which hadn’t held up during the course of the night. “Upstairs and down the corridor to the right you’ll find your room.”

Madeline rose the staircase to the departing back of the butler, heavy with heart as she glanced to the left and saw the elaborate suite of rooms which comprised her boss’ quarters. She walked right and found the door she was looking for, peeking in as she opened it.

It was plain and unadorned, with an iron-frame bed made fastidiously tight with white sheets and a muted, brown coverlet and matching muted pillowcase. The window at the other end of the room overlooked the front patio and an adjacent door led into the cramped en suite, outfitted as it was with an upright tiled shower and mint-scented soap.

Gratefully she peeled off the fabric of her dress and removed the five-inch stilettos which had shredded her toes into nubs, breathing easier in the privacy of her room. She unfastened her underclothes and stepped into the shower, delighting in the warmth of the jets and massaging scented oils into her body. Pudgy and lined she may be; but since taking this job, she was learning a thing or two about the right thing to do in Manhattan.

With a sigh of relief she changed into silk pyjamas the butler had lent her, let her curled hair loose over her pillow and sunk into deep sleep. Only when she awoke at four a.m., fully rested but alert she was residing in her boss’ house did that tempt her to walk barefoot down the hallowed, silent corridors of the mansions, ever aware she was prowling and feeling naughty like an infant having escaped its cot.

The silence was eerie, as she proceeded downstairs, checking first in the dining room then in the kitchen, where everything gleamed sparkling as though Karen hadn’t spilled wine all over herself, Jack hadn’t played with his food on his plate or Grace hadn’t knocked over that antique Ming vase atop the fireplace she had suggested Daniel buy.

She had entered the wing of the mansion on the right, where a Victorian desk fronted the window laid with a slimline phone and laptop setup and comprised the study, walls lined with tall bookcases packed with tomes and console chairs for light reading.

She heard the spit and crackle of the fire before realising there was a light on in the living room and rushed forth to entertain the butler, whom no doubt had stayed up to finish the final tasks demanded of his position as housekeeper. But it wasn’t the butler.

Daniel glanced up from where he sat on the carpet, slumped resting on the side of the gilded, cushioned couch behind him. He wore an oversize sweater in forest-green that billowed over his slim figure with an elastic band, warm woolen leggings in dove-grey which made his legs pin-thin and had tucked his feet encased in argyle socks into a pair of thickly padded, ankle-length Ugg boots. His hair was tousled, face raw with dried tears and stared back at Madeline with rimmed-red eyes, furious at being caught so vulnerable.

“I’m - I - “ Madeline gaped like a fish caught out of water, stumbling her words while Daniel eyed her beadily, not moving a muscle. Her words tuned to a whisper. “I’ll just go… “

She turned and walked out onto the cold hardwood floors that comprised the layout of the study and library, her silk pyjamas clinging to the goosebumps covering her skin.

“Madeline!” Daniel barked. She jumped a foot high and turned unbidden, quite fearful.

There was a pause, silence then, “Don’t forget to send the guests thank-you gifts.”


	38. Junior assistant

Madeline could barely sleep. At five a.m., she heard the butler rise from within his own bedroom and use the shower, so after him she utilised the facilities and applied makeup and brushed her hair, appraising her features in a thoughtful pout. She was prettier than she had ever been in her life, clothed expensively as she was with beauty treatments, but still worn down with anxieties the scope of which she could not imagine handle as her boss. She panicked for a few minutes when she realised she had nothing to wear beyond the sweat-stained, silk dress she had worn to last night’s party when she saw laid out on her bed a suitable outfit comprised of bits and pieces the butler had found for her.

It was a navy pencil skirt with a white lace top buttoned to the collar, with sensible court shoes and a stiff Alice band in which to retain her curls. The waistband held her gut well and though the dark colour of her bra showed obviously through the transparent fabric, she buckled the clasp of the tan coat she had brought for last night and spritzed perfume.

It was six in the morning when she descended the staircase and she could smell muffins and bacon and toast, hear the shufflings of the butler as he served her boss in the lengthy dining room in which he ate breakfast. Just when she thought she could slip out unnoticed, her heels clacked on the tiles - 

“Madeline! Find your way within my line of sight.”

Unbidden but scared, she entered the dining room where her boss sat, posture erect and expression stark and devoid of human features, poised with knife and fork over his meal and eyes ranging over the trenchcoat which withheld her subjective outfit.

“Sit down, Madeline.” he gestured to the seat opposite his end of the table and hesitated before she obeyed, as the butler hurried off to retrieve for her a place setting and napkin. When he had taken her coat, revealing the navy, lace outfit, he departed silently.

“You’ve been working for me for how long, Madeline?” I speared a bite and chewed it thoughtfully. I made sure to convey that I was listening and nodded in acknowledgment.

“And where is it you hope to work after you move on from your position as my assistant?”

Madeline steeled her hopes and without pause replied, “I’d like to work at  Vogue one day.”

I regarded her coolly, taking a sip of the mineral water from a glass on my right.

“And what is it you hope to achieve by working at a fashion magazine?” I allowed my eyes to roam down her unseemly outfit, shapely figure and nervous figure.

“I’d like to be a features editor one day; to shape the stories and design the content…”

I replaced my glass on its coaster with a snap and turned to her imperiously.

“You seem to be learning with some competence the ins and outs of the position you hold, to which I owe a great deal of my effort resolved, on the behalf of the combined ventures of Justin and yourself…”

Madeline thought he spoke three times as long as necessary to say thank you, but inwardly she glowed and took great care to keep the compliment off her face.

“I can guess why you’d want to work in fashion,” I eyed her balefully, denoting the dress she wore. “Seeing as you seem to be lacking in that department, I will give the idea some thought. I have no idea whether Anna Wintour is hiring at the moment, however you may consider the opportunity that you may well be working for me for a long while yet.”

Madeline nodded in silent approval. She watched her boss, awkward that she was to do something as undignified as eat in front of him, for she watched her every move around him like a mouse trapped by a hungry cat.

“Mr Spencer…” Madeline hesitated, for she had not used his name in quite a while.

“Yes?” He glanced up, perturbed with feathers ruffled.

“I’m sorry about… the thing with Mr Truman - “

“i’m certain I have completely no idea what you’re talking about, Madeline. Do entertain some forethought before speaking your mind.”

He rose from the table, wiping his lips with the napkin and tossing it upon his place setting.

“Fetch my coat and scarf and briefcase and let’s be done with this interlude.”

Sitting beside her boss in the lacquered black sedan which transported him to work each day, Madeline glimpsed the grimy backdrop of Manhattan coming into view as she tried to contemplate how dreary life must really be behind the facade her boss presented each day.

I tossed my coat and scarf on Madeline’s desk before she could reach it, entering my office to find steaming hot coffee atop a coaster on my desk, my magazines and newspapers laid out on the underlit table and Justin ready with a pad and pen.

“Good evening, sir,” he nodded, doe-brown eyes lowered in my presence.

“Get me Anna Wintour on the phone,” I demanded, settling in at my desk.

Naturally she could not be reached, but I was attended to by one of her assistants.

“Do you have any positions open at  Vogue ? I have a suggestion that one of them be filled.”

By some stroke of luck, an assistant would be moving on in a manner of weeks and the position could be filled internally if the candidate was the correct choice.

“Madeline,” I called, hanging up the phone. She scurried in, having overheard the conversation. “Anna Wintour will interview you in three weeks for your new position.”

“Thank you, sir,” she beamed a toothy smile.

“It shouldn’t be necessary to inform you that if you fail to get the job, it will still be necessary to replace you. Justin! Begin training a new assistant at once.”

“Yes, sir,” he chirped from his place, but I had tuned him out.

“That’ll be all, Madeline,” I added without glancing up. Doubtless she was stunned, for in addition to the job requirement of absolute efficiency on par with a drill sergeant, Vogue’s offices would demand that she comply with a strict beauty and dress code.

Sometime in the afternoon, when I had sent out Madeline to fetch my lunch, Justin approached me unbidden and looked me in the eye when I noticed his presence.

“Yes?” I asked, as the phone on his desk began to rang. “Do your ears deceive you? Answer the phone, Justin - “

“I want to know,” he said very quietly and deferentially, but solidly backed. “Why I was passed over for the promotion - “

“Promotion?” I spluttered, completely out of my element. “You think - “

In anger, I snatched the blinking light from my desk and to break Justin’s current he was shocked that I had deigned to answer the line myself.

“Yes?” I paused, then replaced the receiver. “Perhaps whoever called wouldn’t have hung up had I greeted them with an adequate response - what I pay you to do, Justin!”

“I have worked here for longer than she has,” he hissed, waving an impromptu arm to the second assistant’s desk which sat empty. “I am just as valuable as Michael was - “

“If you think that her life will be any better as Anna Wintour’s assistant, you haven’t spent enough time at Conde Nast,” I rebuked him. “That girl will be chewed in and spat out before she can take her first step in Jimmy Choos. I am not in the habit of granting exclusive tell-alls with my staff; so kindly do remind yourself who the hell you’re talking to!”

I rose with both hands on my desk and stared down at him fearlessly, where he shrunk but continued to stare back placidly. He stepped forward, close enough for me to sense what his invasion of privacy was meant to imply.

“I want a promotion,” he looked into my eyes, strong build and gelled hair and glimpse of dark growth visible through his slightly unbuttoned shirt. “I see the way you look at me.”

I turned and opened a drawer from my desk, retrieving an offer of employment at the magazine. He was stunned and stared, glancing up at me.

“I was planning to give you this in a month, once your tenure completes a year.”

“But - “

“If Madeline is so keen to move on, an interview with Anna Wintour keeps her out of Conde Nast for good. She is unsuitable for the task and clearly demonstrated so.”

I settled at my desk while Justin perused the document, uncomfortably close with the bulge in his pinstripe pants close. I watched his pelvis flex as he moved, out the corner of my eye.

“You may ask me again at the end of the month when I will renew your employment contract. Keep in mind this does not constitute an excuse to abandon your duties.”

Justin busied himself at his desk, answering calls and typing up documents until Madeline returned with my lunch, nylon tote bag swinging from her wrist. She seemed happy and not at all perturbed when she noticed I was watching her.

“Madeline, you are no longer needed at the magazine. See yourself out.”

There was a shocked, stunned silence as Madeline inched further inside the office if nothing else than to hide her loss of face. I turned the page of the magazine I was reading, closing it with a snap to reveal it was none other than American  Vogue .

“I - I thought - “

“Clearly you were misinformed,” I glanced up at her coldly. “You have worked here barely six months and you presume to promote yourself while working under me?”

Madeline turned to Justin. “I told you that was a secret - “

“Justin! Begin interviewing for new assistants and collect my coat before I leave,” I rose from my seat, strode icily past Madeline who stood, face inflamed as I shrugged on my coat and glanced at her. “I’ve decided I’ll have lunch at Per Se.”

I turned on my heel amid Madeline’s silent, tear stained mouthings of apology as the whisperings and deadlines of staffers throughout reduced to a minimum.

When I returned to the office, the corridors were silent but for the few, frantic staffers who wore panicked expressions as they darted out of my way. I entered the anteroom where Justin stood from his desk and handed him my coat and scarf.

He turned to hang them up in the closet and I admired how his tight suit accented his butt. I kept my eyes to his face before he consulted me with a clipboard and pen.

“You wanted to confirm the travel arrangements to Monaco?” he readied himself.

I sat at my desk and consulted the planner which painstakingly charted my movements.

“Book flights for this weekend and arrange a car to take me to and from the airport. I don’t want that Churchill suite - it’s much too airy and light, like a souffle. Speaking of, I’d like to dine each night at Alain Ducasse and have the drivers understand I won’t tolerate being left on the sidewalk. My French isn’t perfect but I’d like them all to speak English.”

I glanced up as Justin hastily scrawled shorthand on the list which kept growing.

“Ensure my clothes are dry cleaned and packed on the flight before I arrive. I’d like my cell phone to connect when I stay abroad, so set that up with the telecommunications network. I’d like the staff to keep an eye on Trixie while I’m away.”

I regarded him with a baleful eye, disliking that I had made this trip on impulse, forcing a reason to escape from the hectic path my life was heading down. Since Will had stopped returning my calls, I had come to the rather unsettling assessment that in pursuing my path of achievement, I had foregone the niceties which had kept me sane and human.

“Will you need an assistant to come with you on this trip, sir?” Justin intently kept his gaze on his pad, seemingly unaware of the dilemma he had posed.

“No.” I replied, returning my gaze to my computer monitor. “Inform me when you have pre screened a candidate for the second assistant position. That’ll be all, Justin.”


	39. Monaco

Monaco buzzed with excitement and heat, amid the well-heeled throng of citizens and tourists, flooding inside and out from the many cafes and casinos which lined the lane.

I strode into the foyer of the Hotel de Paris, exquisite in richness and soothing decor, imperious archways. Somewhere behind me the chauffeur was helping the porter load my suitcases onto the gilded trolley, but I held only my briefcase which held many documents and my slimline laptop.

“Good evening, Mr Spencer,” the concierge mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief as he shook my hand. I was not above perspiring as I handed him my coat. “Your suite is ready for you.”

He walked me through crowds of perfume, stilettos and Italian suits to where the penthouse elevator took us directly up to my suite. Along the hallway he showed me, unlocking the door with an electronic key card he retrieved from his pocket and held the door open. “I hope this is suitable,” he added wearily, no doubt beleaguered by the sheer maximum of tourists who had descended upon the city.

My suitcases were stacked in a corner, attended to by an effusive, white-gloved butler who spoke with a French accent, informing me my things would be unpacked and ironed when I returned. I whipped out my cell phone and dialed the office.

“Justin, I’ll need you to confirm my dinner reservation at Alain Ducasse,” I walked across the hardwood floors to where the soothing, blue-and-white striped decor reminded me of the presidential office. “The group will need to be there ahead of time as I don’t intend to stay long. Remind the editors that I want everything in by deadline - no exceptions!”

I flipped shut the mobile and turned to see the butler hefting my suitcases across the foyer.

“I’ll need the navy blue suit for tonight, with the somber tie and sterling cufflinks.”

“Very good, sir.” said he, holding the door open as I marched out into the corridor.

The restaurant at Alain Ducasse was simply magnificent, exquisite and breathtaking. The white-gloved waiters held out our chairs as we all seated as one, nodding and greeting each other. Menus were presented and wine list with suggestions, sparkling water poured without display and white linen napkins spread onto laps. The group of eight who had conferred on part to discuss my reign at Details so far were pleased and excited with the progress the issue was making, turning a higher profit and subscription level.

“The food is delicious,” spoke a pampered, preened executive whose Birkin bag sat stiffly beside her chair atop a pouffe. She smoothed her glossy dark hair and glanced around.

“I can faithfully say I will be back again, and again, and again…” smiled a French-accented executive who lived locally. “Daniel, it was a pleasure to meet you and I hope we do so again.”

“Thank you, Gerard,” I smiled, tired of the polite milieu I had to indulge in for tonight, for these were my primary backers and critics. “Thank you all. I am very honored…”

Inwardly sighing with relief as they began to file out, I ignored the waiter holding out my chair, tossing my napkin upon the table and murmuring for him to give my thanks to the chef. I strode out of the restaurant and ascended an ornate staircase up to one of the bars built into the grand structure.

The counter was polished marble, the many booths ornamented and antique, but had collected quite a crowd from weary travelers downing champagne, beautiful young mistresses making the most of their wealthy patrons’ money and unmarried corporate heavyweights who ordered the finest wine at the bar and waited for the butterflies to flock.

There was a pianist playing classical music with such elegance I sighed out loud, closing my eyes to enjoy the brief silence of the moment, broken by the staccato of stilettos on the floor announcing the arrival of yet another gaggle of expensively perfumed women.

“You should try something stronger,” spoke the voice I thought belonged to the bartender, but instead came from a dapper young man with an easy smile and ice-blue eyes. “You look positively worn down.”

His blonde hair was tousled just so, with a smile that threatened to emerge that bordered on sexy. His allure was of both mystique and grandeur, as though he belonged in that bar but could just as easily pass off as anybody with enough effort. His pearly white gleamed when I shook his hand, shared names and motioned to my weak apple cocktail.

“Chateau Petrus, ‘82,” he told the bartender, who nodded and scampered away. “The bottle, please. Won’t you join me?”

He motioned to a pair of muted club chairs facing a small table and I obliged, noticing at once he seated himself with such refined normalcy I decided he had to be aristocratic, at least with his affected accent and complete nonchalance of the rarefied world in which he moved. I had not discarded my upper-crust British nor the way in which I held myself, but after over ten years in cutthroat American publishing the essence of dignified disagreement had become a thing of the past and I lost all semblance of civilised criticism. This young man - Mr Sark - looked between thirty and thirty-five at a guess.

The waiter arrived with two champagne flutes on a tray and poured us the expensive wine which at a bottle must’ve cost upward of several thousand dollars.

“Thank you,” I leant forward and clinked my champagne flute against his in a toast. “So are you here on business or leisure, Mr Sark?”

“I’m an international consultant, dealing with clients across the globe. I tend to their financial holdings and stock portfolios… “ From the sounds of it, something highly lucrative with a great deal of skill and experience involved, with lots of travel added in for good measure. “I would ask you the same question, but I have the added luxury of seeing your picture in a publication I often read from time to time.”

I smiled slightly. “Yes. I’m here on business, chiefly. I haven’t visited Monaco in a very long time…”

I glanced around at the elegant, warm ambience of the bar and my senses jolted when I made eye contact with him. He was undoubtedly handsome, infallibly mysterious and well-dressed, with the hint of a smirk on his features.

“How are you finding the sights?”

“It’s beautiful. I glance out from the balcony and I wonder if I should visit the casino.”

“You must be staying here,” he smiled, admiring me with a glance over the stem of his flute before he drank. “As a matter of fact, I am too.”

The heat flooded me and yet the room had air conditioning to cool the patrons. We locked eyes unfailingly and unconsciously I rose when he did. “Shall we go for a tour?”

He had all the class and refinement my own upbringing had instilled in me, yet was so lacking in the winding offices of Details and elsewhere in hard-nosed New York.

We checked out the casino, gargantuan rooms holding host to poker tables and lines of slot machines, queues at exchange counters to cash in their chips or turn money into more. We settled at a hundred-dollar table claimed mostly by businessmen in wrinkled shirts, mopping their brows and lamenting each loss as though they had personally guaranteed their mortgaged home and children’s college fund, which they might have.

During the walk back, the moonlight both illuminated and hid us when he pressed me into a side alley, his lips roaming mine faintly tasting of liquor as I’m sure mine did, too. His cologne scorched my senses not unkindly while, when we took the elevator to his suite - which was slightly smaller than mine, with two separate bedrooms and ensuites - he ravaged me with a passion I thought not possible, not since the days of youthful abandon.

His oxford cotton shirt was soaked with perspiration, unbuttoned and flung open as I trailed kisses down his broad, hairless chest and settled at the trail of hair which led further south. My hands gripped his hair as he embraced me and when he towered over me, surging into me with a fury belying the fanatic snarl on his features, I felt him fill me and I cried out in pain, but from pleasure that I had connected with someone after so long.

His chest heaved up and down after he rolled off me and bade I stay over, if only for efficiency’s sake that he had a second bedroom free of use. I tottered across the suite, through the living room where silvers of moonlight peeked through the curtains and into the opposite bedroom, laid invitingly with the covers pulled back and the bathroom adjacent quite similar to mine as I showered away the grime of sex and dried myself with fluffy towels, collapsing on top of the bed with a great deal of exhaustion from jet lag.

When I awoke, it was just past eight in the morning. I tied the cord of the terrycloth robe I shrugged into, having left my clothes in his bedroom and entered the living room, surprised to find the remnants of breakfast on the table while Mr Sark stood outside on the balcony, door open with the curtains blowing in the breeze, sipping a cup of coffee from a saucer.

“Good morning,” he emerged and gestured to the spread of breakfast which he had heartily consumed. “There’s more if you’re hungry.”

“I have an appointment at nine, so I should be heading off,” I strode towards him and pecked him on the cheek, to his surprise. “It was very nice to meet you.”


	40. Filling the vacancy

During the trip back, I stared out of the cabin window ensconced as I was in first class, while a stewardess effusively poured me mineral water and issued instructions for everyone to buckle in as the plane began to take off.

Every inch of my body felt relaxed, aided by the ministrations of the massages I had received in the hotel’s spa complex, feeling refreshed and at ease. The sex with Mr Sark had opened a porthole that hadn’t been aired out in quite some time, and while I found it and him invigorating, I was gladdened that I did not seek him out as a future companion.

The limousine collected me at JFK airport and drove me promptly to the Manhattan penthouse atop which I changed, showered and had breakfast courtesy of the chef before being driven to the offices of Conde Nast at seven in the morning.

“Justin, I’ll be arriving shortly at the office and I’d like some very strong coffee waiting on my desk when I do. Be ready to provide me with a list of pre screened candidates suitable for the second assistant position and call a meeting of all the editors for noon so I can evaluate the work they have submitted over the weekend in my absence.”

I strode across the granite, giant lobby and was buzzed through the turnstiles by the security guard who took little offense when I ignored his greeting.

The elevator arrived and I stepped out, ignoring the huddled mass of staffers who contemplated early starts in their impromptu work group and promptly dispersed as I walked towards them, noting their names and positions for today’s meeting. As I entered the anteroom which housed both my assistants’ desks, I tossed my coat and scarf on Justin’s desk, who emerged from my office having just spread out my magazines and newspapers on the underlit table.

“Where’s my coffee?” I asked, as he handed me the Book which comprised a weekend’s worth of work maintaining the issue up to scratch. “And whom have you selected to be my assistant?”

“Madeline’s on her way back now. I’ve whittled it down to two candidates - one is internally selected and is available at your request, but the other works at a rival publication and will need advance notice.”

I assented with a nod and he hurried to hang up my coat and scarf. I reviewed my newspapers and magazines as he returned with a clipboard of their CVs.

“I’ll interview the internal candidate sometime before lunch and be prepared for it to end quickly. Call Madeline and remind simply because it is taking long to find her replacement, she should not be conducting her duties with the same relative tardiness. Find a gap in my schedule sometime this week for me to interview the external candidate and be prepared to wait for your promotion until you have found two adequate replacements for the assistant position.”

“Yes, sir,” he hurried off as I settled myself at my desk, glancing briefly at the CVs listed on the clipboard before reviewing the weighs-a-ton Book that detailed what would be shown in this month’s issue.

The phone line on my desk blinked before Justin glanced up from his desk. “I have Anna Wintour for you.”

Without hesitation, I snapped it up to speak to the legendary editrix-in-chief of  _ Vogue _ .

“Hi, how are you,” she rambled without preamble. “My assistant mentioned you had a girl for me to hire?”

“She wants to work at  _ Vogue _ and I’ve decided to grant her the opportunity of applying, if nothing else,” I said.

“Well, she’ll have to be good. So far those who have are sorely lacking. Send her through,” she hung up without notice.

I glanced up minutes later to see Madeline hurrying her way down the corridor into the anteroom. She was slimmer than I gave her credit for, with definition on her face and muscles which was lacking before. She wore a black top over the tartan dress which pleated at her knees, gait unsteady on lacquered black heels supporting her calves.

“Madeline! What took you so long?” I cast my eyes up and down her outfit as she resolutely placed my coffee atop my desk. Doubtless her newfound confidence was her ideal of moving up the career ladder to work for someone who ‘cared’.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she bowed her head, not looking at all apologetic. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“You can make your way to  _ Vogue _ ’s offices and submit yourself for an interview,” I barely glanced up from the Book I perused. “See that you return in time to fetch my lunch.”

“N-now?” she gasped, both surprised and fearful.

“If you think I’m impatient, I imagine the job will be off the table before you hit the elevator. Move!”

She tottered off on her heels, still ungainly in her bulk as I sipped the coffee and found it strong but cold. “Justin! The coffee is ice cold. Clearly Madeline makes mistakes in her role but that means you must pick up the slack. Send through the internal applicant and fetch me a coffee.”

Justin dialed an extension and whispered urgently into the mouthpiece. I slammed shut the Book, mollified but by no means excited without the current layout of this month’s issue and glanced up when the internal candidate entered at a nod from my head.

“In which department do you work?” I asked, not recognising her as we shook hands.

“I was an assistant at Vanity Fair before I was made redundant,” she handed me a Starbucks coffee she had purchased on her mid-afternoon break. “I don’t usually drink black, but I thought it might come in handy.”

I sat at my desk and refused to let my face show I was impressed. The coffee steamed its vigor and alluring scent but I ignored it however much tired I was.

“So, Jessica,” I confirmed with a glance at her CV. “I’m hiring an assistant to replace the second who’s about to leave me for  _ Vogue _ . Tell me why you’re fit for the position.”

She labored on about her skills and experience, having spent many late nights ensuring copy went to print and used to the demands that being an assistant requires. She was well aware of the production cycle of the magazine, aware of the strain placed on everyone during peak hours and provided instances in which she helped pull the editor through during some particularly sticky situations. We had wrapped up the interview and shook hands again when Madeline walked in, noticeably downtrodden and defeated.

“Ah, Madeline,” I noticed the sweat stains under her arm, the sheen of perspiration that had ruined her makeup and the soulless gaze of one whom has been utterly destroyed.

“You’ll need to make room on your desk for the newest addition to the staff.”

Jessica positively beamed, her sheen of bouncy blonde hair and tanned skin and white teeth a complement to the positively haggard example of Madeline, who remained stalwart in her dumpy and heaving persona.

The phone rang and Justin snatched it up, with a brief, “Mr Spencer’s office.”

Reluctantly, as though restraining tears, Madeline showed Jessica through to the anteroom and behind the desk which the two of them would be manning until the exchange.

I glanced at the now-cold coffee on my desk and promptly dumped it in the bin.

“Justin! Madeline? I did ask one of you to fetch me a coffee, don’t you remember?”

Over the course of lunch, I was embroiled in meeting after meeting, not the least of which was where I announced to staff that my newest assistant Jessica would be replacing Madeline at the end of her tenure. Amid applause and cheering - for she looked every bit the part and possessed the cool, clipped tones of an efficient secretary - Madeline stood in the corner, pale and dour. No doubt her interview with Anna Wintour had not gone well.

When the staff had dispersed, I made my way back into the anteroom, where Justin had manned the phones and handed me a call sheet comprising several numbers that warranted replies. As I settled at my desk, I noticed the blond sheen and chicly outfitted Jessica take the helm at Madeline’s desk, while the lumpy assistant approached my desk.

“Yes?”

“Um, uh,” she cleared her throat, having cried in the privacy of the women’s bathroom. “My interview didn’t - uh, work out.”

I stared up at her unblinkingly. “Is that all?”

“Well, I, uh - I figured - “

“You figured what? That I would fire you for simply ascending through the ranks? For spending six months at my magazine and choosing to move on as you please?”

“If my assistants cannot tolerate me for a year, you damn well better bet that Vogue will not look so kindly on your decision to abandon ship.”

“So - um, does that mean - “

“You have proven yourself to go behind my back and threaten the stability of this office with your petty, poorly thought out ambitions. You will stay a month and no longer.”

With Justin manning the phone line and Jessica quickly picking up what little Madeline taught her, I perused the Book, made changes where possible, visited departments that needed magic and conducted changes where they were necessary.

When I returned to the office, my lunch was laid out on my desk on the tray, with a glass of sparkling water atop a coaster on the right. Jessica smoothed the silk shirt she wore and moved out of my way as I sat down.

“Is there anything else I can do for - “

Tiredly I consulted the planner which told me I had yet another meeting followed by a conference call I would have to conduct before I could even consider going home.

“I’ll be leaving the office at five today. Call the chef and tell him I’d like dinner by the time I arrive.” She nodded and headed for her desk “Oh and Jessica? I’d like Justin to show you how to deliver the Book tonight. That’ll be all.”

Around five, I grabbed the briefcase which held my slimline laptop, multiple gold-tipped ballpoint pens and the planner which charted my movements and sauntered out into the anteroom, where Jessica rushed atop teetering heels to fetch my coat and scarf, which I shrugged into and wound around my neck. Madeline was busy answering two phone lines and Justin had just returned from the men’s room.

“Can I help you with anything, sir?”

I glanced momentarily at the tight pinstripe which encased his crotch and found my libido urging, but kept it off my face. He glanced at Jessica who straightened the tan pencil skirt into which she had tucked her silk shirt.

“Thank you for today, Justin,” I adjusted a minute seam in my coat. “I understand it gets very busy when the issue goes to print but I’m surprised at your candor and effort.”

He was taken aback, as was Madeline who glowered but Jessica, who had glimpsed only a day’s worth of my bad mood - which she blamed on jet lag and little to no sleep - only glowed at her co-worker’s praise.

“Thank you, sir,” he broke into a genuine smile, but I had already headed off down the corridor.

The soothing calm and cool of the air conditioning helped to soothe my nerves, seeing as I hadn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours. I walked through the living room, where several black leather couches faced a wall-mounted flat screen TV.

I sat at the head of the long dining table which could comfortably seat eight, eating alone and silently as the chef busied himself in the kitchen, preparing dessert though my head swam and my eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. I ate the dessert slowly, savouring the taste but finding I could eat no more and abandoning it midway, passing my apologies and thanks to his great tenor with cuisine. For the salary I paid him he lived up to the flexibility and shrugged it off with a smile that could enlighten millions.

Trixie was curled up asleep, glancing up as I entered and closed the door behind me. I stripped off my clothes so that I was completely naked, discarded my suit like chinks of armor that faded ethereally into wisps and pulled aside the coverlet so I could snuggle myself in deep. I did not hear Justin and Jessica arrive, whispering in hushed discussion where to place the Book each night and in which cupboard to hang up the dry cleaning.

He was surprised that I had gone to bed early, but assured her that I was always awake and alert, so to keep the noise to a minimum. More than that, he told her during the elevator ride down to the lobby of a number of incidents where he had entered silently only to be startled by the boss’ cat, a wispy white feline who spooked at every turn.


	41. Initiative

My alarm woke me at five as it did every morning and I shot a hand out from under the covers to stop its insistent blaring. Trixie darted off the bed in fear and I had to pry her from underneath the bed to calm her anxious nerves.

I showered and changed into an expensively constructed suit, smoothing cream on my face and hands and spritzing cologne, all belying how worn and exhausted I felt. As I sat at the breakfast table, marveling at what youth and genetics had done to the chef who served me a plate of bacon and sausages, I drank deeply of the plunger of black coffee and read at length the newspaper he had thoughtfully provided from downstairs.

“Thank you, Adam.” I rose from the table and flipped open the cell phone as I collected my coat and scarf from the hat rack positioned in the foyer. It went to voicemail.

“Madeline, this is uhn-acceptable. I expect to see you at the office before I arrive.”

The limousine drive to the office was uneventful, but it was when I had taken the elevator to my floor and found the anteroom empty that I really began to panic.

“Justin? Madeline! Where the hell are you?” I stood with my coat hung over my arm with my scarf unraveled, surprised at the lack of efficiency in my domain. I threw both atop the second assistant’s desk and found no newspapers or magazines laid out on the table.

I seated myself at my desk, fuming. Neither Justin nor Madeline were answering their phones. I dialed the extension for human resources, but they weren’t in till nine.

Furious, I marched out into the anteroom where the lone staffer who had arrived before me fled at the expression on my face. I consulted the computer atop Justin’s desk which seemed to take an achingly long time to load, scrolled down the contact list and found both Jessica’s home and cell phone numbers listed. I called both.

“Jessica?” I answered her sleepy voice. “I can’t imagine what you might be doing instead of your job. Find your way to the office and fetch me a coffee.”

I slammed down the phone and tried both Justin and Jessica again, but neither were answering. I felt like shouting and swearing, especially during this - the most important issue of the year - and my staff were openly lacking in their attendance and efforts.

I strolled my way through the corridors as the staffers began filing in, bleary eyed and tousled in their grooming and dress but all that quickly changed once they realised I had arrived earlier than expected to the office - and not one, not two, but all three assistants were missing from their desks. They hurried to their respective departments.

I walked into the anteroom not fifteen minutes later to find Jessica bent over my desk, straightening the Starbucks coffee atop a coaster and turning to meet my glazed gaze, carrying an armful of the magazines and newspapers she had yet to lay out.

“Where have you been?” I demanded of her, glancing down at her hair and outfit which were noticeably streaked with haste.

“Justin called me and told me he wasn’t able to come in today,” she busied herself with spreading the publications out in a fan atop the underlit table. “He’s got the flu.”

Mollified slightly, I shrugged it off and glanced at the second assistant’s empty desk.

“Continue to call Madeline until she answers. With any luck, she’ll remember how high rent is in Manhattan and decide to deign us with her presence.”

The morning was hectic and without pause, as Jessica connected me to various people with whom I would confer. Editors and staffers were invited at my behest to report to my desk, where I scrutinised the layout, content and images in the issue, always perfecting and clarifying where improvement could be made. They were dismissed from my office with slumped shoulders and heavy gaits, hurrying off back to their departments to further refine and rework the material which had caused them such extensive overwork in the first place.

“Jessica! Has Madeline called in sick, too?”

She appeared in my office, brushing a slick strand of hair away from the sweat on her face and consulting the call list with a smaller pad for note taking within it.

“I haven’t been able to reach her or any of her emergency contacts listed, sir.”

I had been hoping to eat in, but Jessica would have to leave the office to fetch my lunch where the phone would ring unattended. However, if I ate out, I would be away from the office and therefore unable to deal with the myriad of problems which would surely arise in my absence.

“Buy some prepackaged salad from the cafeteria,” I extricated a black American Express from my leather wallet. “Have them charge it to my account.”

“Yes, sir.” She took it carefully and hurried out, almost tripping on her stilettos.

I heard the phone ringing on Jessica’s desk and decided to answer it from my line.

“Yes?”

“I expected to be connected with one of your assistants. Going modern, are we?”

“With whom am I speaking?” I positioned the full brunt of my British accent to the fore.

“I could ask you the same. I believe we met at the Hotel de Paris in Monaco.”

My mind ranged over the possibilities for this call. I didn’t even hand him a business card!

“It’s good to hear from you,” I replied, my tone considerably warmer. I watched a staffer enter the anteroom, notice it deserted and beckoned he come forth “This isn’t a good time to talk, I’m afraid. Can I call you back?”

I scribbled down the cell phone number he provided on the stationery provided precisely for this purpose and hung up the phone, glancing at the pin-thin art director who wore a black turtleneck and glasses with a shaved haircut and groomed appearance.

“Yes?” I noticed his hesitant demeanour, then the placards in his hand. “Show me.”

They were photo shoots of Ryan Gosling, embossed onto the front cover. One showed him with a jacket tossed behind his shoulder as he glared soulfully into the camera while another had him standing prone, hands in pockets, glancing with the same indefinable puppy-dog-love expression.

“Go with the second,” I decreed, and he nodded and tucked them away. “Change the typeface. It’s too prominent. And Tim? I know what a hassle preparing the extra shoot was in arranging it. Thank you for your dedication.”

He glanced back, surprised I had remembered his name and mumbled something before fleeing back to his department. I dialed the number Mr Sark had given me.

“Where are you calling from?” I asked, glancing out the floor-to-ceiling windows to Manhattan and beyond.

“Geneva. The Hotel President Wilson,” he replied, off hand. “Views of the lake from my bedroom.”

“Not a bad job at all.”

“Indeed. However, my profession demands flexibility and as such, I crave stability from time to time. I rarely have time to myself any more.”

We hung up on the agreement that if he was ever in New York, he would make my acquaintance. I spent a few quiet seconds pondering such an arrangement when I heard footsteps and glanced up to see Jessica approaching, placing both the prepackaged salad in a plastic case and my credit card atop it on my desk before answering the ringing phone at her desk. I snatched both, slid the credit card back into my wallet and resolved to check with my accountants any undue activity over the coming months. It would be an excellent way to gauge her trustworthiness. I ate my salad in silence.

I left the office at seven p.m., striding out into the anteroom where Jessica hurriedly hung up the phone and rushed to collect my coat and scarf from the cupboard. I beckoned her to follow me down the hallway as I shrugged it on and wound the scarf around my neck.

“Tell Justin I expect to see him at work tomorrow. Terminate Madeline and inform security that her pass is to be revoked. Tell the chef I’ll have hamburgers for dinner. I’ll want to attend an auction at Sotheby’s this weekend for a bottle of… something ‘82”

As I continued my diatribe, staffers fled from my path and one allowed me to take the elevator he had just summoned. Jessica stepped inside and pressed the ground button, holding open the door for me.

“Good night, sir,” nodded Tim, the art director, who was passing.

I nodded without comment and entered the vestibule as Jessica sprang out.

“And Jessica? I’ll need the Book tonight. Ensure Tim completes it before you fall asleep.”

I had just finished three hamburgers out of starvation and refused the chef’s offer of dessert before he re-emerged into the dining room, not for the reason I was contemplating. He handed me the phone and I thanked him.

“Yes?”

“Sir, it’s Justin. Your assistant,” he added, when I made no reply. “I’m calling to apologise about my absence today. It was irresponsible of me to not provide you with notice.”

“Jessica informed me as to your illness. Madeline, however, has not shown up nor provided any reason for her absence. I have terminated her forthwith.”

“Oh - “ he seemed completely caught out of sync. “She… what?”

“I do not tolerate tardiness or inattention from my staff. By some stroke of luck Jessica was able to coordinate activities for a full day without prior training.”

“I understand, sir. This won’t happen again - “

“I should think not. We are days away from closing this month’s issue and it will be the biggest one yet. I will not have it squandered due to the inadequacies of my staff, do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir - yes, I understand completely.” But I had already hung up.


	42. September issue

“Send Ryan Gosling a thank-you gift for appearing on the cover of our magazine. I’d like three shirts from Calvin Klein - but none of them to be bright colours. Did you schedule the appointment at Sotheby’s? I’d like to buy a bottle of that wine I told you about. Send the art director in here. I’d like to go over the finishing touches on the cover.”

Jessica nodded, scribbling frantically as she headed back to her desk to pick up the phone.

I glanced at my e-mails and of the incoming calls on my cell phone, checking the planner which detailed my movements up until the close of the September issue.

“I asked for the art director, didn’t I?” I called out and the pace considerably quickened in the anteroom. “Jessica! Order my lunch.”

She darted off after finishing a phone call for W&S to begin preparations to cook my meal to where she would meet a chauffeured car at the kerb to take her there.

The art director arrived, sweating and panting slightly with an assistant beside him. They laid out the cover on my desk and I rose, surveying it with a keen eye.

“This is good,” they all relaxed and smiled wearily, murmuring thanks. “Very good job done.”

When they had departed and all was silent but for Justin answering the ringing phone lines, there was some peace in an otherwise hectic work day. I noticed Justin making his way into my office and glanced up from the computer monitor.

“Yes?”

“I just got off the phone with a member of Madeline’s family. They say she’s been committed to a facility for a suicide attempt. She’s been depressed for some time now.”

I paused, wondering how to react before I processed this disturbing information.

“Check with accounts that her wages have been correctly paid and inform human resources. I’ll need you to get my lawyer on the phone and send a condolence note to the family.”

That night I was prone with worry, not only for Madeline and her family but for the issue, which was due to go to print by the end of the week. Everything was put together and excellent, but it would make a turning point in the magazine if it all went off without a hitch - I would be the editor-in-chief who turned Details into a profitable publication.

Having spent so long working my way up the career ladder, it should’ve been soothing to know that I had reached my apex, possessed the millions I had so lost along with my family’s connections and Earldom, and yet it felt like I was doing ‘business as usual’.

It had been out of a necessity for survival, a pursuit of passion which had led me to the offices of Conde Nast and as Details’ editor-in-chief atop where I reigned with absolute power. Now I had access much like I did as I was once a lord: but on a credible level with the white-collar elite. I had gained my prestige through passion, ignoring love along the way.

I had Mr Sark’s cell phone number in my planner, where no doubt he would be gallivanting across the world to attend to numerous clients in a number of cities and continents.

With the reach and grasp of one of the media's elite, millions at my disposal and many around me who attended to my every need, now I really was a New Yorker for all to see.


	43. Only for us

The September issue was a success. Everyone was congratulated, including newest member of staff Jessica, who took my coat and scarf when I arrived at the office by seven a.m. and handed me the steaming hot Starbucks which tasted as black as tar.

“Good morning, sir,” nodded Justin, answering the phone efficiently.

I sat at my desk as Jessica stood in front of it, teetering on the tan Manolos which made her legs look a mile long. Her blonde curls shone and fair skin glowed, doubtless spending the salary of Carrie Bradshaw to keep up her looks and figure.

“I’d like to speak with human resources sometime before lunch to discuss pay rises. Cover Madeline’s stay at the mental facility by business funds and send out a press release that we wish her well. Find a suitable replacement for yourself when you take Justin’s position as senior assistant, and get Anna Wintour on the phone so I can apologise for Madeline’s abysmal performance.”

“Yes, Mr Spencer,” Jessica scribbled in shorthand, rushing out of my view.

The phone line blinked and Justin called out, “I have Mr Newhouse calling to congratulate you on the issue” before I picked it up.

“Thank you, you’re too kind. I will. A week from today? Sounds good, I’ll see you then.”

I hung up the phone and called out, “Justin!”

He finished up another call as quickly as was polite and appeared before my desk while I sipped my Starbucks and perused  _ The Wall Street Journal _ . He looked suitably stressed and I pondered how to word this announcement, not altogether pleased.

“I’ll be holding a dinner party tonight for Mr Newhouse and Anna Wintour to celebrate the success of Details’ September issue.” I was just as stressed as he was at voicing the sentiment, as I was not fond of entertaining visitors, especially on short notice.

“T-tonight?” he gulped, but regained his composure.

I squinted my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose, emboldened by his help and long-suffering as his boss enough to show my displeasure openly.

“I’ll arrange it all, don’t worry, sir - “

“I’ll need Adam notified, and someone to look after Trixie - “

“I’ll handle it all, sir. Me and Jessica. In the meanwhile - “

“The staff meeting in five minutes,” I finished before he could. “Make sure nobody’s late.”

I checked the time on my Rolex as five p.m. The dinner party would begin in two hours.

“Justin! I’m leaving the office to get ready for tonight. I expect you both to come with me and prepare accordingly.” I passed through the anteroom, collected my coat and scarf from a scandalised Jessica who hadn’t anticipated this notion.

“Come with you, sir?” repeated Justin, not sure he had heard this part correct.

“Yes,” I replied, a bite of impatience in my voice as they trailed behind, while I walked ahead through mostly deserted staff rooms and headed towards the elevator. “Find something suitable to wear and present yourself in an hour’s time at my apartment.”

Justin held the elevator door open and nabbed the ‘ground’ button before I slid in. The chrome doors closed on their briefly panicked faces, and both ran for the anteroom to collect their things and rush home to change.

When I reached my apartment, the scent of cooking uplifted my senses. I handed my coat to a waiter in whites, who seemed deferential enough but not particularly clued in on my nuances.

“Where is my suit?” I asked him, and he responded blankly, mouth agape. “Did you hear me correctly?”

I passed by and entered my bedroom, where a dry cleaned suit was laid out on the bed, a pair of shiny black shoes at the base and a sterling set of silver cufflinks in blue velvet on the mantelpiece. I huffed my approval and entered the bathroom to shower.

I was smoothing the last of my face cream when I heard hurried footsteps and voices, emerging into the living room where a pianist sat with his back to me, tinkling classical music while Justin and Jessica emerged into view, breaking off conversation with a harried waiter. The atmosphere was cool and calm, though warm from where one stood near the kitchen.

“You’re late,” I eyed Justin’s impeccable Hugo Boss suit and Jessica’s immaculate Donna Karan tan dress. “I expect you to greet the guests and show them inside. No need for useless small talk.”

Once the party had concluded, I thanked Adam as he cleared the plates, whose admiration was won to the envy of the watching servers, all of whom wore white and were stressed to breaking point trying to please the few most influential members in publishing.

“I’ll have dessert, Adam,” I called out, unable to issue an order while looking at his pretty, puppy-dog eyes.

“Yes, sir,” he grinned, military in his swagger and I concealed my pleasure, instead glancing to the liveried servers who remained in a row while Justin and Jessica helped the guests with their coats. “You may go. I will issue a recommendation to your superiors.”

“Thank you,” they intoned as one, filing out in dignity and breaking into a sprint once out of sight.

“Justin! Jessica. Get in here,” I called, over the merriment of piano music that continued to play. Shoes rapped smartly and heels clicked on the hardwood floors as they came into view. “Thank you for helping with tonight. Much appreciated.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” Justin nodded. Jessica beamed. “You have an amazing apartment.”

I paused at her words, taking them seriously and glancing around at the minimalist furnishings, refined decor and silent, cool temperature while the classical music played. I steepled my fingers on the glass table, while my assistants stood awkwardly nearby, with only the sounds of Adam removing the chocolate souffle from the oven that he had prepared earlier, knowing by rote I would ask for it. He deserved a salary increase.

“Did you speak with human resources?”

“Yes, sir. He issued bonuses of five thousand per staffer pending a three-year contract per person - “

“And yourself?” I glanced up at him, expressionless.

He fidgeted for a moment, then: “I think it’s time for me to move on, sir.”

I glanced back to the archway connecting the kitchen. “Very well. Inform me tomorrow of the establishment at which you wish to commence employment and I’ll make a call.”

“Thank you, sir,” he inclined his head and left, but I asked Jessica to remain.

“Sir?” her eyes were expectant.

“You have proven yourself to be adequately competent these past few weeks,” I told her. “I should expect the same level of commitment when you hire a new assistant. Justin will help you fill the role.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said, and meant it. I believed her.

I fidgeted with my hand, which was smooth but lined and exhaled in one long, slow motion. I glanced outside to the darkness which blanketed Manhattan but for the millions of firefly lights upon every skyscraper and building spread out in a wide crevasse.

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” she asked, but my blank stare only relaxed the facial muscles in my face. There was no option to divulge to her that I wanted company, beyond the accolades of my professional peers, perhaps even to enjoy the warm embrace of Mr Sark. Isolation at the top of the food chain was to be expected.

“That’ll be all, Jessica,” I all but sighed.


	44. Stumble and a fall

I remained in my office while the temperature grew humid, issuing directives for one of my assistants to fetch my lunch while I kept cool in the air conditioned offices of Details. The fanfare of the September issue’s success died down, leaving behind it an expectation to do even better next year, and so with a calm contentment that left me doing my job under the directives of capital contributions which funded my magazine’s production, I set to performing the task without the distractions of love or social status where my peers so often cracked under the pressure. Having grown used to solitary confinement, I resented but did not want the company of those who might endanger my success. I had spent my youth well, enjoyed it seldom but took my pleasures when they came, however sparse they may come.

“Sir?” Justin approached my desk, from where Jessica was out fetching my lunch from S&W. “I have the new assistant here to see you.”

“Of course,” I ushered him away, pretending I hadn’t forgotten that niggling detail. It irritated me that my thoughts had strayed so often as of late. “Send her in.”

Not a week later, I asked Jessica to arrange an inter-office memo to circulate, advising everyone to wish Justin goodbye and good luck on his new venture as a corporate executive at a hedge fund. All wished him well, while I remained at my desk, and though the phone lines rang, I insisted Jessica attend the party while I took the calls with my own two hands.

“Yes?” I heard the scurrying and congratulations quite foreign on this floor and certainly so a floor up on  _ Vogue _ ’s offices. “With whom am I speaking?”

I finished up the call with the florist, who had arranged to send a bouquet of roses to my sister in France, an oddity since I didn’t remember doing so. I consulted the computer network which organised my comings and goings, soon finding through my own expertise that Valentine's Day was coming up, and Justin had paid for flowers through a local florist near Grace’s chateau.

“Justin?” I called, while I heard him rifling around in his desk. Jessica had promptly returned to answer the phones, embroiled in a lengthy conversation with the art department. “Come in here before you leave.”

His forehead was sheen with sweat from the morning’s tribulations and he looked weary but pleased. The new assistant whom I hadn’t had occasion to meet, fetching my coffees, lunch and dry cleaning while Jessica manned the phones, was out of sight.

“It’s been good working with you, sir,” he smirked, shaking my hand and for a moment, I thought his grip would stay but it was brisk and professional.

“Good luck with Bear Stearns,” I smiled, surprised that I found him more robust than when we had first met, lines around his eyes that maturity had given him suited him.

When I resumed my seat, I felt an odd longing for the young man I watched walk away, the pinstripe suit tightening around his ass, which I imagined to be clenched in Calvin Klein boxer briefs. And so with a little sigh, I flicked through the planner to confirm the afternoon’s appointments, returned a call that had remained on hold for five minutes prior and glanced up to see the new assistant, brow furrowed in exhaustion until he caught my eye, somewhat embarrassed and sweaty though he tried to hide it. I glanced away and excused myself to the private bathroom adjoining my suite, while he laid out my lunch with no amount of finesse, spilling a bit of the Pellegrino on my desk.

“You have a call, uh, sir,” called out the new assistant, who covered the phones while Jessica talked with the veterinarian over the phone who confirmed Trixie was in good health.

“Who can I expect to receive over the phone?” I stood up from my desk, glancing over to where his harried, flustered glance met mine. “Surely you don’t expect me to be so impolite as to confirm once I’ve begun the call?”

I picked up the blinking line and answered, “Yes?”

“Do you answer your phones now? The recession must be hitting hard.”

“Julian,” the warmth crept into my voice, and Jessica rose from her desk to quietly close shut the double doors which kept the call private. “How nice to hear from you. I expect you’re keeping well?”

“As well as can be considered,” there was merriment and laughter on his end. “I’m currently in the first-class lounge at Virgin Airlines, with a glass of champagne in one hand and wondering what you were doing in this instant.”

I felt pleased, I did, though I knew his concern was limited only to sex, and I didn’t mind. He liked to play games, though I had no time for it, and he had no time for anything.

“Very well,” I surmised. “The spring issue is going wonderfully.”

“Marvelous,” he trailed off, catching the eye of a hunky bartender. “Will you join me aboard?”

The invitation was sporadic, ill-timed and not well thought out at all. I enjoyed plans, despised a lack of candor from others who knew I was too busy to be frequenting haunts my money allowed but my profession did not.

“I’ll issue a raincheck on that front, Julian. I’m terribly busy.”

“Indeed,” his reply was dry and brisk. “Enjoy your week, working and all that.”

He hung up. I let the receiver slide, wondering when I had lost hope to expect more from a man who entertained fancies and romances on the side of his busy lifestyle. I had no time to jet off like a trust-funder like I used to, envied his but still, my life was enjoyable in other ways, for the first time.

With resolution I would come to accept more fully in the coming months, I realised the passing interest of a man who cared so little about my time in the face of his, was somebody better left forgotten. It was with a stale taste in my mouth that I demanded Jessica open the doors, inform them to push up the features meeting and tell Adam not to bother making dinner. I would eat out at a restaurant tonight, not wanting to fall prey to the suave presence of my hot chef, while my defences were so low and vulnerable.

“I’m leaving for Per Se,” I announced all of a sudden, at six p.m. when my reservation was for half past. “Inform the driver of my plans and ensure I receive a table in the back.”

“Yes, sir,” Jessica handed me my coat and scarf, while I scarcely noticed the new assistant who consulted the phones, shoulders slumped from the considerably full day.

Once at the restaurant, I sat among my peers in the shaded section, tinkling silver cutlery with fine china, sipping sparkling water from a glass and barely noticing when a patron rose from their chair and headed in my direction to my table. Usually some idiot bigwig would attempt to rub shoulders in an attempt to make light conversation, but I would have none of it. Preparing to deliver with gusto an icy dismissal which would send the newly-minted millionaire going down in cigar smoke, I raised my eyebrows in what must’ve been surprise to see it was nobody, just a figment of my imagination.

Somewhat stilted, I returned to my dinner, delicately bringing the fork to my mouth and chewing thoughtfully while my confusion raged inside. What was happening to me?

The apartment was cool, calm and silent when I returned home, the driver dropping me off to where I found the Book resting upon an end table and my dry cleaning hung up in the foyer closet. I perused the day’s work summarised in the phone book-sized issue while I relaxed on the leather couch in the living room, flashes of light through the glass pane from neighbouring skyscrapers amid my penthouse view.

Everything was more or less to an average standard pending review. No matter how hard I worked the troops, nothing was ever good enough - or was it my standards, fueled by personal abandon, that had decided I was not good enough, and so neither should anyone else be in my eyes?

I collapsed with a groan, letting the Book slip through my fingers with a dull thud onto the carpet. Several glasses of wine later, still fully dressed, I fell asleep with my face pressed against the grey carpet and listened to the dishwasher hum in the distance.

I wiped my mouth and realised the sun shining through the windows meant it was beyond day break, easily time I would’ve otherwise been at the office. My clothes were rumpled and my face felt pasty as I rose from the carpet with a groan, running a hand over my unshaven jaw to where the dull throb of a hangover resided in my temple.

“Uh, sir?”

I glanced up and saw Adam nearby, even more cute looking anxious in his chef whites.

“I - Did I fall asleep?” I garbled, half-asleep and getting to my feet. He helped me and I felt his weight comfortable and hands warm.

“I called your office, sir,” Adam handed me a glass of water while I rested on the couch. “I told them you’d be coming in late.”

“What time is it?” I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly nine a.m.

“I can call back and say you’re, uh, staying home, sir - “

“I haven’t taken a sick day since becoming editor-in-chief,” I felt rousing in me as I spoke these words, empty as they were. “I’m very important.”

He didn’t know what to say. I didn’t, either. My speech was garbled, my vision fuzzy.

“I, uh - think you should stay home, sir.”

I glanced at him, his appealing features and genuine concern. I wanted to reach out and stroke him, this young man barely thirty years old, but even I didn’t know if he was gay.

He took my silence as assent and helped me to bed, for my walk was uncoordinated.

“Do you want something before bed?” he asked, after helping me take two aspirin.

I wanted nothing more than his body beside mine, but my age, professionalism and decency wouldn’t allow it. I thought of Thomas, my old valet once upon a time and closed my eyes. “That’ll be all, Adam.”

The strangest thing happened while I was asleep. Whether I was conscious of it or not, images flashed in my memory as real as though I could taste them, see them, hold them.

I remembered the overwhelming shame and hurt I had felt at the hands of those who should’ve known better. The isolation in store for a young man brought up on such principles of brave duty and everlasting stoicism. How awed I felt when I learned the true nature of life, and cut by its many pitfalls along the way, only to learn… the only heart that matters is the one beating in your chest, to whose rhythms our lives lead us in many directions, and to whose loyalty is crisscrossed by patterns even the mind cannot devise. We must go where we seek, to find what we will… and everything has a place, just as everyone can go as they please. There is a final commitment in what we do, but overall the theme is one of mislaid intentions and unearthed promises. We try to succeed where we fail, and end up in fate’s arms. All we have is each other, and ourselves.

When I awoke, I didn’t know what to think or even who I was. I seemed lighter, no longer burdened somehow and when I realised I didn’t recognise the surroundings, ambient, not even the pace of my own breathing that was when my panic set in. The scuffed, hardwood floors looked nothing like I could remember. I lay on the open canopy of a large bed, scuffed sheets kicked mostly off, with the underlying sheet drenched in sweat and fluids. I tried to regain my sense of memory, but nothing would connect.

That was when I noticed the stout young man who emerged from the hallway. He was shorter than I expected, but then how could I know what to expect? The growth of hair on his chest was unmatched by the broadening physique, stubble of hair leading underneath the towel he had wrapped around his waist, passing me a grin that widened my features and inflamed my insides. Had I slept with this man? Who was I?

With a gasp of surprise that inflated not just my insides but my very soul, I looked down at my body and saw a much less lined, smoother and altogether creamy complexion. Without restraint I rushed past him and followed the cloud of mist into the tiny bathroom, bare feet scudding the mildewing tiles and wiping a hand over the steamed up mirror over the sink. There, to my great shock I saw a reflection that was both not my own and belonged to me. Did I look this way? What was startling was I couldn’t reconcile the new with the old. Was I sentient? Could I know this was not me, and yet not remember who I actually was? Had I suffered an epileptic fit, memory loss of some sort? I tried to think back, but there was naught but suffering, and with great agony I turned back to the present. I was here. I was now. I had all the opportunity in the world in which to pursue this greatness, whatever lay ahead of me. Whatever that meant.


	45. Returning to the office

After the incident, I took a holiday in France to spend time with my sister and her children. Remy, her husband, was away on business - which made it easier to avoid the subject of his pre-wedding jitters and subsequent inappropriate advance. I stayed in a guest room furnished with the finery of France, spending late nights on the laptop to have long-distance Skype calls with the staff, huddled in their frenetic Manhattan offices while I relaxed at peace, in a Parisian mansion.

“No,” I shook my head, pretending not to notice the collective intake of breath. “That story is dull. I want a re-write done by tomorrow.”

I rose early enough to eat breakfast by myself, finishing just as Grace descended the stairs, twiddling the pearl earrings that complemented her unique and feminine gait. She was radiant and showed no signs of distress as her twin children ran riot around the antiques which held prominence in their home. Gabbing in French faster than I could decipher, they took no more notice of me than they did their mother’s stern admonitions.

By lunch, I ate in the garden with Grace or joined her in jaunts to the city, where a carer looked after the children at home while she treated herself to Parisian fashion and I indulged in the custom tailored suits monsieurs and mademoiselles bestowed upon me from atelier couturiers.

I departed the day before Remy was due home. I made my excuses, insisted a work emergency was underway but she bid me adieu. I had booked my own flight out of the country, ordering a first-class seat which took me across international waters and into JFK at about four a.m. Manhattan time.

There was a chauffeured limousine waiting at the kerb, courtesy of my first-class flight which took me to my apartment, where Adam would not be preparing breakfast, having not received notice that I would be returning early. Nobody, not even my assistants knew I had touched down in the city and I wanted to keep it that way.

After a power nap, I showered and changed into one of the fitted suits I had tailored professionally for me in Paris, affixing the cufflinks and spritzing on my preferred, Calvin Klein cologne. It was nearly eight a.m., precisely the point at which everyone would be filing into their offices. I dialed the number of my chauffeur and requested that he be available to take me to the office in ten minutes.

The ride was slow but silent, the traffic picking up in the peak of morning midtown. Glancing leisurely out of the window at the harried passersby in their business suits clutching briefcases and Starbucks, I dialed the office.

“Mr Spencer’s office - “

“Jessica, I’ll be arriving shortly at the office. I’d like my breakfast,” I hung up.

The car pulled up to the kerb not a few minutes later, and I exited without help from the chauffeur who darted to open my door. Striding across the lobby, no different from the other suited professionals except for the modicum of respect one gives a faceless corporate official they sense is important but do not recognise, I strode into the packed elevator amid a cloud of cologne and Chanel no. 5, my breath steaming the chrome doors while others around me typed on their Blackberrys, frantically checked their watches or just stood silent, staring at the elevator dial, ponderous and waiting.

Finally, the doors opened on my floor and I threw the receptionist no more than a passing look, herself strained and unexpected to see me, sitting beneath a large ‘DETAILS’ masthead pinned to the wall behind her.

I walked down winding corridors, featuring on one side or another opaque glass windows which revealed offices or conference rooms, themselves relatively tidy in the haste of my arrival. I noticed one staffer hastily tucking in her cotton buttoned shirt to the business pencil skirt she wore, while two men in black turtlenecks and fitted jeans caught my eye and ran away. Smirking slightly, I composed my face into a battle worn grimace as I strode into the anteroom which fronted my office, noticing at once the absence of my junior assistant and tossing my coat onto the vacant desk, ignoring the senior assistant who rose to fulfill both roles.

“Where is my breakfast?” I demanded, noticing the empty desk but for my laptop, a glass of Pellegrino in a crystal glass and no Starbucks cup. “And where is my coffee?”

“Vera’s just gone to fetch them, sir,” Jessica raced in, handing me the clipboard that detailed the morning’s calls so far. I snatched them from her without a single word and observed out of the corner of my eye that she was harried, but not altogether overrun with worry. “I didn’t know you had - “

“Save it,” I replied, not unkindly. “Get Tim in here. I need to go over the layout of the Book for the new cover model - what’s his name?”

“Ryan Kwanten,” replied Jessica dutifully, racing back round her desk to the phone and quickly dialing the extension. “Mr Spencer wants to see you - “

I could not hear any more of her conversation as I perched at my own desk, taking a sip of the Pellegrino which rested nearby and perused the list of calls which demanded my attention. I had set up my laptop and turned on the power when Tim, the art director who wore a black turtleneck and skinny jeans, carrying several prints of the cover while a bespectacled, wire-thin assistant cowered nearby.

“Here are the covers we thought best - “

Abruptly he halted his speech while I perused the font, colours and background, all the while avoiding his eye and only the two which stared back at me from the cover, those of the tanned, blonde hunk belonging to Ryan Kwanten. Silence prevailed until the phone rang and Jessica answered it with practised, cool tones of professional demeanour.

“I want that typeface removed, something bolder,” I handed him back the cover, spitting forth rapid instructions his assistant scribbled down. “Jessica! Where is the new girl?”

Phone conversation cut off mid-way, Jessica bent over her desk to be better heard.

“I’m sorry, Mr Spencer. I’ll call - “

Abruptly I turned back to Tim, as though the break in conversation had not occurred. “Fix this layout and then we’ll talk.”

He scurried back to his department, assistant in tow with only their departing footsteps and Jessica’s urgent whispers into the phone to break the silence. I perused my e-mail, which had increased since I last checked it from home, and picked up the phone to dial Grace to tell her I had arrived safely, when I saw movement and realised it was the junior assistant.

“Vera!” hissed Jessica, loud enough for me to overhear. “Where have you - “

“I am  _ so _ sorry,” apologised Vera, whose bosom heaved as she spoke, apparently not noticing me at my desk. She wore a business suit and pants, which barely buttoned over her wide frame. Her cheeks were red, eyes wide as she saw me rise from my desk.

“Where have you been?” the bite of impatience in my voice was unmistakable. “I called ahead to inform you I would be arriving. This is completely unacceptable.”

Spurred by her nature, she walked forward no doubt to issue an apology, her mouth forming the words but no sound came out. She seemed to recede as I glared at her, the cuffs of her pants dirtied by the slush so often found in Manhattan gutters, sweat glistening upon her forehead and decolletage, what little makeup she had applied earlier that morning drowning in the heat of the moment.

“Where is my breakfast?” I hissed in a low tone, watching as she retrieved the nylon tote from her wrist amid a stack of dry cleaned hangers, all of which contained suits. “It better not be cold.”

I strode away from the sight of her, to the underlit table where I was on the periphery of picking up  _ The New York Times _ . “Jessica! Where are my magazines and newspapers?”

Upon this disgrace, Jessica made it to my office unsteadily upon her high heels in time to see my snarling expression. She teetered unconsciously upon seeing such brazen emotion and ducked away from my glance. “I’ll go fetch them now.”

“Do see that you answer my phones!” I called, after her retreating back, seating myself at my desk while the junior assistant fastidiously finished the touches on my breakfast.

“I’m  _ so _ sorry, sir,” she breathed, sounding out of breath, like a wheezy windpipe.

“When did you join my company?” I asked her, glancing up from my seat but still managing to make an impression, which she buckled under. “You seem completely out-of-date.”

She reddened furiously, an impudent expression spreading across her features. “That is completely  _ rude _ \- “

“I’m not interested in your activities,” I waved her away. “I expect this won’t happen again. Now answer the phone.”

With a great deal of self-control, she managed to make it back to her desk on time.

“ _ Hello _ , Mr Spencer’s office,” the junior assistant answered.

I took a bite of the sausages which were now cold, calling out, “Jessica! I want this breakfast properly cooked next time! I’m heading out to Per Se.”

I strode into the anteroom, where the junior assistant was still on her call. She glanced blankly at my approach, not aware my footsteps had preceded my arrival and flustered, finished up the call in whatever manner she could manage.

“Well?” I shot daggers at her, while she sat, unsure, glancing up at me. “Find my coat.”

Hastily she retrieved it from the closet, where it had been hung up only seconds before and handed it to me, her hands shaking. I shrugged it on, noting her discomposed nature and remarked, “I’d like my car to be ready.”

“Where are you heading, sir?” she had to force the honorific through her nicotine-stained teeth, taking a step back in horror as I stared daggers at her.

“What do you mean, ‘where am I  _ heading _ ?’ To the restaurant, of course. You can’t seem to make things fit, can you?”

I turned without waiting for a response, interrupting the tête-à-tête of three co-workers who immediately scattered upon my arrival, scarpering back to their respective departments while I called, “Does this count as your break? I think not!”

I reached the elevator in solitary confinement, the lone passenger a fashion assistant from  _ Vogue _ who gulped nervously in my direction and flattened her pin-thin figure into a corner as I approached. No doubt she had been warned that in almost equal measure, my tenure at Details as editor-in-chief had made me as fearsome as  _ Vogue _ ’s Anna Wintour.

By the time I made it onto the kerb, my chauffeur was ready to receive me and when I inquired as to whether the assistant had called ahead to my arrival, he shook his head no.

En route to Per Se, I dialed the office and received no answer, only voicemail. “Jessica! If I can’t get through to my office, you can damn well bet nobody else can - “

“Sir?” came Jessica’s frenzied, panicked voice. “I’m so sorry, Mr Spencer, Vera - “

“I don’t want to hear any more. I expect there to be a table reserved for me by the time I arrive, in the  _ back _ section,” I knew this was impossible at a moment’s notice. “See that Vera is gone by the time I return. That’s all.”

Upon my return, I noticed the atmosphere had changed slightly. Staffers ran to and fro, trying to get everything they needed for the afternoon meeting. They quailed under my glare, darting out of my way as I approached, while I tossed my coat into the waiting arms of Jessica, noticing the junior assistant’s desk vacant and cleared out.

“I want her replaced with someone competent, Jessica,” I told her, as she hung up my coat only to answer a ringing phone. “I mean it. I will accept nothing less.”

Only a few minutes later, I left the sanctum that was my office to head down the corridors and into the features meeting, taking the seat at the head of the table while the others filed in around me. Jessica remained at her desk, answering phones instead of transcribing notes. This further task would prompt her to hurry along the issue of finding a junior assistant.

“Tim, how are we doing on layout?”

“Here’s the new cover,” he bent over the table to pass me the copy, which I snatched and scanned for a moment, lips pursed. “It’s - “

“It’s adequate. Not perfect, it’ll need some retouching,” I passed it to some nameless staffer, who took it in surprise. “See that the typeface isn’t so large. Anita?”

“Yes?” piped up a petite redhead, who clutched her binder.

“Do you have something to contribute?” I glared at her. “I was aware you were doing a piece on belts?”

“Yes,” she blushed, consulting her notes. “But I’ve reworked it to include other accessories the modern man needs… “

“See that the article makes its way into the Book before tonight,” I advised her. “Who is writing the piece on the Cayman Islands?”

“That would be me,” spoke a voice.

“I don’t like it. There’s an article in Conde Nast Traveler that covers it extensively. We need to broaden out - select a new subject. Anything else?”

The room was silent, and I stood. “Tim, follow me into my office.”

I passed Jessica who was busy answering phones, noticed me and put the call on hold.

“Jessica, I’d like my lunch.” I turned to Tim. “Where is your assistant?”

Without waiting for a response, I seated myself at my desk, noticing the almost empty glass of Pellegrino. “Jessica! I’ll need a glass of Pellegrino.”

I approached the bureau where my newspapers fanned out and felt a rising sense of irritation. Why couldn’t I hold an assistant? It was completely unreliable…

“Sir, I have a temp assistant on loan from  _ Vogue _ ,” Jessica piped up, pouring Pellegrino from a green bottle. “Besides a few semantics, he understands the protocol.”

“I should hope so,” I waved her away once she had stopped pouring. “Thank you.”

Surprised and mollified, she headed back to her desk while I sat at mine.

“Find Tim and tell him I do not have the patience to wait,” I called. “And where is my lunch?”

While Jessica frantically dialed, I noticed Tim and his assistant entering my office.

“Sorry, Mr Spencer,” he apologized, mopping his brow. His assistant stood nervously nearby. “Here’s the reworked cover photo.”

I took it from him without another word. It looked perfect this time.

“This will do,” I handed it back to him, “Tim, how long have you been working for Details?”

This stumped him; surprised at the personal tone, he stuttered, “T-three years, sir.”

“Well, you’ve done a fine job. Keep it up,” I glanced down at my planner, noticing he remained stalwart in front of me. “That’ll be all, Tim.”

Within a matter of minutes, I noticed someone hesitate at my doors and glanced up to see a young man in a fitted charcoal suit, looking dapper and handsome with no small amount of pride in his clothing. He was carrying a nylon tote around his elbow, a steaming hot coffee from Starbucks and seemed to be talking in Jessica’s direction.

“You!” I called out to him, rising from my mammoth desk to address the young man who almost stumbled forward in his haste. “Is that my lunch? Did you prepare it yourself?”

“I - uh, no - “

“It certainly took long enough,” I snatched the Starbucks coffee he proffered and turned away to the row of magazines, selecting  _ Vogue _ .

“I do apologise, sir,” he seemed brisk and efficient, though not entirely calculating. He began arranging my lunch upon a plate set on a tray, silver cutlery clinking and topping up my glass of Pellegrino, to my surprise.

I sipped the hot, black coffee and glanced out the windows to midtown Manhattan, roaring traffic and fearsome skyscrapers amid a maze of streets, lights and passersby. I turned to find him finished, already answering the ringing phone at his desk.

With content, I began to eat the freshly prepared meal and ignored the flashing light on the phone while I drank Pellegrino, surveying the expanse of control before me.

Close to five p.m., I closed down my laptop and was surprised to find the junior assistant already fetching my coat out of the closet. I turned to Jessica, who smoothed the silk shirt that was tucked into her cream pencil skirt and held a clipboard.

“Your coat, sir,” I accepted it without a word and considered him for a moment.

“Follow me.”

I strode down the corridor, while he managed to keep up, a notepad and ballpoint pen retrieved from his pocket.

“I’d like mint jelly for dessert, and tell Adam I’d like him to feed Trixie twice a day instead of three. Set up a meeting with my accountant sometime next week. Be in before Jessica tomorrow and ensure you know how to order breakfast. Also, I’d like you to drop off the Book tonight,” I turned to him. “Ensure Jessica shows you how. You’ve worked with Anna Wintour, I gather?”

“Yes, sir,” he nodded, not betraying his professional expression. “Two months.”

“Very well,” I pretended not to acknowledge him as we got inside the elevator, including as he followed me through the lobby and out onto the kerb.

“Have a good night, sir,” he nodded.

My interest piqued, I watched him walk away as the chauffeur closed my door, securing me in momentary silence. He was adequately attractive and more than perfunctory.

“Sir?” Graham, the chauffeur caught my notice before he pulled out onto the kerb. “Thank you for the bonus. That cheque made my day.”

I was finishing dessert when I heard the front door open, followed by the click-clack of Jessica’s heels and what must’ve been the junior assistant’s polished shoes.

“Hang the dry cleaning in this closet,” I could hear her whisper, as I walked closer into the living room. “The Book goes on this table - Mr Spencer! I’m - “

“That’s quite alright, Jessica.” I settled myself on the black leather couch, extending my hand for the Book the junior assistant handed me. “Thank you.”

They stood uncertainly, awkwardly in the expansive space that was my apartment. Neither of them could help tiny glances; the flat-screen TV, fawn sectional couches or comparing the size of their apartments to my living room.

“Sit down,” I commanded, gesturing to the presidential chairs nearby. “I insist.”

Nervously, they sat, adjusting posture and comportment to look at ease, though they didn’t. Jessica’s manicured hands itched for a notebook, while the young man fiddled with his cufflinks. I glanced up at them, alert. “Would either of you like a drink?”

They turned to each other, quite abashed. “We’re fine - “

I had already leapt up to the bureau, handing them glass tumblers with ice clinking in the water.

“T-thank you,” they muttered, taking deep swigs to compensate. Uneasily, they watched me recline on the couch while I took in their appearances; little to criticise.

“When is that international conference for Conde Nast?” I asked both of them.

“Three weeks’ time,” replied the junior assistant, to my surprise. Then again, he had probably been preparing for it on  _ Vogue _ ’s end.

“I’ll need you both to be adequately prepped. Jessica, you’ll stay behind and - “

“Mike - “ he blurted out, uncertainly.

“Michael,” I corrected him. “You’ll travel with me to help as my personal assistant. It’ll be a dull affair, but with any luck you’ll stay on with Details as junior assistant. Have human resources write up your contract.”

“I’ve already signed, sir,” he spoke quietly, but self-assuredly.

I gazed at him for a moment longer than intended. “I see.”

“We should be going, sir,” Jessica rose all of a sudden. “I’m sure you don’t want us spoiling your evening.”

It was clear I had little to do that night besides peruse the Book, not that anything exciting would come of it. This was my routine every night, unless there wasn’t much to correct and I stayed in bed, checking e-mails until my eyes grew red.

“Very well,” I managed finally, and they set their empty tumblers on the end table between the chairs. “Enjoy - “

“I can stay, sir,” Mike insisted, while Jessica hovered uncertainly on the periphery.

“It’s a Friday night, Michael,” I glanced out to the starry Manhattan sky, lit by a thousand skyscrapers. “You should be out partying. How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight, sir.”

“You don’t look it,” I replied, nearly clapping a hand over my mouth. Had I really blurted that out? “Jessica, you may leave us. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Um, alright, sir,” she seemed disconcerted, but left. Her heels clacked in the foyer until the front door closed quietly with a snap.

I regarded Mike, who stared back impassively. “What made you - “

“Intuition, sir,” he shrugged. “I’m hired as your assistant, to help in any way I can.”

His shoulders were broad and his charcoal grey suit fit well, shaven stubble down to a point. He looked at ease, though inside he must be wondering when he can get out.

“I should tell you, uh, Mike,” I stumbled when I remembered his name. “I find it difficult to disregard formality, in any situation.”

“That’s OK, sir,” he seated himself in the wing chair, kicking off his shoes. “I don’t mind.”

Uncertainly, I eyed him and wondered what his true intentions were. He handed me his empty tumbler and I refilled it, our fingers touching briefly when I passed it back.

“Thanks,” he took a grateful swig of the icy water, and I resumed my seat.

“So, Mike,” I paused, trying to find the words. “Tell me about yourself.”

It was almost eleven p.m. when I glanced at my Rolex, several hours later.

“It’s getting late. You should head home,” I advised him, rising from my chair.

He got up from his seat but extended his hand, and I shook it however reluctantly.

“Thank you for hiring me, sir.” Mike turned and headed for the lobby.

“I’ll call you a taxi,” I called, and he replied, “There’s no need, sir. Good night.”

Slightly discomfited, I stood for a moment longer than necessary in the large, airy living room before heading into my bedroom. The cascade of light upon my perfectly made bed rippled as I pulled back the covers, my clothes abandoned on the carpet. I snuggled in tight and wondered how I had managed to finagle such a fantastic junior assistant.


	46. Shopping for more

I rose at seven a.m., the latest I would consciously sleep in till without the alarm blaring me awake. I didn’t come into the office on the weekend, nor did several staffers, though I kept up to date on the goings on and looked over the content of the upcoming month’s issue on my laptop, alternately sipping Pellegrino or hot chocolate, while Adam bustled around in the kitchen, humming to himself; and the maids busied themselves discreetly with vacuuming and dusting.

This particular morning, I finished what remained on breakfast: crusts from buttered toast, crumbs from blueberry muffins, the dregs of black coffee and green tea ebbing in their porcelain cups. Adam emerged from the kitchen, tall and lean in chef whites to clear the table.

“Thank you, Adam,” I tried not to stare, not at the unshaven stubble nor the puppy dog eyes which crinkled when he smiled, forbidding my libido to flare up so early in the morning. “Everything was delicious.”

As he walked away, I glimpsed the fit of his uniform adhering to his tight butt, and flicked through the Book which had been delivered to my home last night. Again, I thought of my assistants, and wondered what, exactly, Jessica and Mike did on  _ their _ days off.

I glanced out of the landscape windows through which the morning sun shone, admiring the haze of midtown and glint of the skyscrapers looming above the frenzied traffic and busy passersby below.

“Adam, call my driver,” I rose to my feet, collecting my cell phone and wallet from the bureau. “I’m heading into the city.”

Once ensconced in my faithful Town car, I decreed, “Madison Avenue, please.”

The limousine took its steady and silent tour through the streets of Manhattan, jerking to an immediate halt when some idiot driver pulled out all of a sudden or the lights changed unexpectedly.

“Sorry, sir,” called the chauffeur.

“That’s quite alright,” I responded, still not fully at ease with midtown Manhattan traffic.

Eventually, the limousine parked at the kerb and I exited before the chauffeur could open my door, tossing my silk-lined cashmere coat back onto the plush leather backseat.

“You may pick me up at noon,” I told him, and he nodded graciously. “Thank you, sir.”

Amid the sweating pedestrians, I was eager myself to avoid the heat emanating from above and reflected with intensity through the panes of skyscrapers above. I found Barney’s rotating doors and pushed through, where a quiet hush amid the silent fans of cool air-conditioning spun above. I was immediately, effusively greeted by a salesperson who offered me help, but I politely desisted.

I moved past the women’s section, which seemed to dominate more than three floors, while somewhere on the fourth I flicked through racks of suits and pants and shirts, all the while busy shoppers compared articles of clothing to each other, expensive perfume and staccato heels abound, mostly wives picking out clothes for their husbands.

Ill at ease with the humdrum quiet - I enjoyed the solitude of my office, but the frenzy of activity abound - I settled upon a chaise chair and flicked through the e-mails on my phone, before a salesperson noticed my solitude.

“Is there anything I can help you with, sir?” he preened and practised, wearing size-zero cashmere that seemed to have been plucked from the mannequin.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I responded, more to be polite than to show any misgivings.

I didn’t want to go clothes shopping! I wanted to have fun! Alas, I had no friends on whose acquaintance to call, lest they think I was treating them to either an all-expenses-paid jaunt or was investing in their company, requesting a ten thousand-dollar table at their gala, inviting them to be a cover model for Details or inviting them to a power lunch over which their social status would be heightened in the glow of my success at Conde Nast.

Not long after, I grew bored with the silence and endless chatter between wealthy shopper and salesperson, advising this colour with that shape, flattering and schmoozing, avoiding tactfully the issue of whether someone’s weight might kill the outfit or if said ensemble was recently seen on somebody else within their rarefied circle of society wives. I rose from my chair, tucking the cell phone in my pocket and pressing the call button for the elevator which connected the floors, wishing I was back at the office, when the doors slid open and I came face-to-face with Will, whom I hadn’t seen since…

“Daniel,” he said pleasantly enough. “What a surprise to see you here.”

He was lined and graying at the temples, just over fifty and retaining his good looks despite his weightier figure. His suit was cashmere and his tie silk, his beak nose protruding not unkindly.

“Will,” I hesitated, somewhat stilted, the memories and feelings flashing back in an instant.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he looked me up and down, taking me in with apparent pride. “I always knew you’d get on your feet.”

This seemed somewhat disingenuous; when I revoked my claim to British peerage, I hadn’t heard a word from him in the years it took to climb the ladder at Conde Nast.

“You look very trim,” I replied, equally coolly. I was lying through my teeth, but I gathered this was precisely the right thing to say because he grinned self-consciously.

“I know,” he pinched the flesh around his belly. “I work out three hours a day, yet I love the food at Per Se.”

“Are you still practising?” Law, I implied.

He shook his head no. “The firm closed its doors a few years back. Traded in partnership for a quieter lifestyle.”

“If you’re here in Manhattan, I doubt your lifestyle is anything but quiet.”

“You’d know, would you?” he grinned, a knowing smile that made me feel quaint, even under the awkward circumstances.

There was a pause, then - “I’ve got to go,” said Will, and I replied, “Well, I should - “

Somewhat stilted even further, Will merely smiled and offered his hand. “It was good to see you. We should catch up for brunch sometime.”

“That would be nice,” I shook his hand, feeling the firmness and assurance that I had remembered so well. “Good day, Will.”

There was no mention of that I had rose to editor-in-chief of Details; presumably it was public knowledge he had already gleaned, or perhaps that particular position in publishing wasn’t impressive enough? Whatever. His retirement from partner practice meant he would be financially set to reside in homes across the state; he would not be meriting my mention for anything other than company. There was nothing more for anyone to gain from me.


	47. Cultivation

I was in my office on a Monday morning, relieved to be back at work. I sipped the almost lukewarm Starbucks Mike handed me, during the busy shift that had commenced since my arrival and deferred my punishment till later.

“Jessica! Are my travel plans for the Conde Nast summit confirmed?”

She raced into my office, clasping a notebook to her heaving chest, nodding. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go over them with me.”

“You’ll be picked up at seven a.m. at your apartment by chauffeured limousine, dropped off at JFK approximately half an hour later and fly by Virgin first-class direct to Paris. You’ll arrive at four p.m. in France, be taken by chauffeured limousine to the Four Seasons, where I’ve booked the - “

“I’ve decided I’ll stay in the Parisian suite,” I announced, evoking much scribbling from Jessica and rapid typing on Mike’s end. “The penthouse suite looks much too vulgar with all that blue; I’d go mad. Besides, the English suite has red gingham wallpaper - how bizarre!”

“I’ll call them right away,” nodded Jessica, glad to reduce the expenses from $18,000 a night to a more modest $6,000 per night. She scurried away to hide behind her desk.

I resumed my gaze to the Book, which was almost completed for this month’s issue. Everyone had been performing up to adequate standard, which I would thank them for in various, subtle distinctions of behaviour and effort.

“Sir?” Mike bent over his desk. “I have Will Gardner on line one.”

“I’ll take it,” I decreed, picking up the phone from where the light blinked insistently. “Will?”

“Daniel,” his voice was deep. “Hard at work, I presume?”

“Do you miss the days of running to court and catching up with local judges?” I perused the copy in front of me, while Mike refilled the glass of Pellegrino on my desk that was running low.

“Not a bit. Besides, I always had first-years to break in to do that for me,” he grinned down the line. “Nowadays I relax.”

“Hardly, I bet,” I scoffed openly. “I’m sure you’re in as many investments now as you were during your practice. Not even I can stay away from work now that I’m addicted.”

“You’ve climbed pretty high, I must say,” he replied, breaking the ice. “It’s a shame we weren’t in the same business; I could’ve given you a leg up.”

“I can guarantee you, I micromanage my time just as much as I would have had I been a barrister,” I smiled, emphasising the British terminology. “I prefer UK law.”

The silence that lasted less than a second seemed to imply my own recusal of peerage which had gone through British courts, which neither of us seemed interested to draw upon in the awkward moment, then - 

“I’d like to have lunch with you. Does this afternoon suit?”

I glanced at my planner, noting that I did indeed spare a half hour each day for lunch.

“I might be free,” I replied. “Where are you thinking?”

“Per Se?”

“I eat there every day. How about somewhere different?”

“Well,” he chuckled. “Daniel?”

“Ugh,” I shook my head. “Namesake, indeed. I’ll see you at noon.”

“Done,” he hung up.

“Justin - er, Mike! Book me a table for two at - “

“Already dialing, sir.”

Upon my arrival at the restaurant, the maitre’d took my coat and showed me to my table, occupied by Will who rose as I approached.

“Daniel,” he grinned, rattling off his order to the waiter as I took my seat.

He faced me and not ungenerously, I faced him back. He looked so familiar despite all the years that had passed, even though I hadn’t got further with him than first base.

“Wine?” Will asked, as a waiter hovered nearby.

“None for me, thank you,” I replied graciously. “Just Pellegrino will do.”

“You’re a hard sell,” he smirked. “Even when we were dating, you always opted for no-frills. You Brits.”

“Yes,” I said slowly, remembering the circumstances which led us to meet. I was surprised to see that he had resumed his interest in me; surely he had other, younger boys with smoother bodies and monetary aspirations wanting to get him into bed? “That and I don’t see the point of frivolous waste. I see you have the new iPhone already.”

He held up the cell phone which he had been on the periphery of checking, grinning. “This? Gotta catch up with all these youngsters. Technology’s advancing - “

“Too fast,” I admitted sourly. “I’m too old to keep track.”

“You’re only… what? Forty?”

I nodded. “That’s correct.”

“Always so formal,” he grinned, glancing at the spread of silver cutlery before him.

“How about you?” I responded coolly.

“What about me?” Will’s eyes teased.

“I imagine you’d find someone steady, by now,” my tone seemed to suggest that in his rejection of me, he had better find some valid excuse other than the unacceptable.

Spouting forth a series of lies which boosted his ego and bored me, I glanced around to the many patrons who, in this generation no longer minded open homosexuality but, like every Manhattanite who dreamed of social mobility, shot me sycophantic grins of greeting I chose not to return.

“I’m making you uncomfortable,” he noted, though not entirely for the reasons he posed. “Seems you should have some wine - waiter!”

“I’m fine, really,” I insisted. Will’s hand hovered like the waiter before him. “I don’t drink much.”

“Perhaps that’s the problem,” he smirked, ordering a bottle of expensive wine. “It loosened your tongue when last we met.”

Unspoken, the message in his gaze seemed to suggest what else it seemed capable of loosening that fresh night, when his invitation had seemed to me an experience wherein I was young, free, yet hampered by familial restraints… I felt the familiar tug towards those horrible confines and remembered with a surge of pride: I am editor-in-chief of one of the most profitables magazines in existence. I command a salary of over a million dollars. I live atop a penthouse apartment, driven to work each day by a chauffeured limousine, fly first-class on international flights and assisted by two extremely efficient, professional secretaries.

“I am a little nervous,” and at this, I began to feel my age, how no longer young I felt. Perhaps it had been the rush of work, but at times when I felt the glimmer of youth returning and knowing that now my position attracted people for all the wrong reasons.

“I’m glad you called,” I took a sip of Pellegrino. “Rarely do people call for my company.”

He covered his slight discomfiture at this statement with a smile, and I returned his with a grateful one of my own. Perhaps he was genuine, perhaps not. Either way, I would feel comfortable expressing such statements in polite company. No longer was I afraid of being found out as famous; now that I was acknowledged in my own right, in a field in which I was a success, I no longer minded notoriety and accepted it for what it was.

“You’ve changed,” he said, after a short pause. “I can’t tell what it is about you - “

I glanced at him. “Perhaps I have. It’s been quite a journey.”

With the self-assured demeanour that set most calculating narcissists on edge, I didn’t meet his eye as I rose from the table, once we had finished our meal. Handing the waiter his black credit card without an acknowledging glance, he rose to meet me, too.

“I’ll see you out.”

Following me through the restaurant were several pairs of eyes; I took my coat from the maitre’d and made it out onto the sidewalk, where my Town Car waited nearby.

“We should do this again,” he said, looking into my eyes, more closer than I had anticipated.

“That would be nice,” I brought myself up to full height, to intimidate using my British accent for bravado. I embraced him with a touch on the wrist. “See you ‘round, Will.”

Once ensconced in the back seat of the limousine, I dialed the office instead of watching him disappear from sight through the tinted windows, as we emerged into midtown traffic.

“Mike, I’m returning to the office. I’d like my Starbucks to be ready when I arrive.”


	48. A new beginning

It was late afternoon Friday, mere minutes before I was due to leave the office. I had collected my cell phone and wallet from a drawer, finished up a call to the art department and entered the anteroom, collecting my coat from a harried-looking Mike, his disheveled suit the result of a long work week.

“You’ll be glad to put your feet up, I expect,” I shrugged on the cashmere coat, comfortably lined with silk. “Naturally, I’ll need the Book tonight.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll be heading downtown with a group of friends to Bungalow X.”

Still the hottest, most happening party joint this side of the island, Bungalow X was famed for its mad blowouts which lasted well into daybreak, renamed countless times over the decade.

“I went there a few times back in my youth,” I stood ponderously, trying to remember how long ago that was. “Sixteen years ago, I believe.”

“Have you never been back, sir?”

“Well,” I paused, uncertainly. “Surely the crowd is much younger now. I don’t think I’ve been to a bar besides the ones in hotel lobbies abroad - even then, it’s tame compared to Manhattan.”

“I know of one you might enjoy, sir,” said Mike, ever the enthusiastic concierge. “The Ivy, on 61 Fifth Avenue. It has elite clientele and would be right up your alley - “

“Mmm,” I tried to suppress my disappointment. “I imagine the clientele will be captains of industry like me, sipping their Scotch and reminiscing of younger days.”

“You’re not old, sir,” Mike raised his eyebrows. “You could pass for thirty-five.”

At this, I couldn’t conceal a snort and bark of laughter. “Yeah. Sure.”

He wrinkled his brow, in what I was sure was derision mixed with curiosity for the informality which shone through. I rarely spoke without precise articulation of my speech.

“You’re welcome to come out with us, if you like,” he replied, and at this I noticed his taunting grin. I was glad I didn’t have to defuse the subtlety; but at the same time, I felt a pang of regret that his gesture wasn’t authentic.

“Perhaps next time,” I smiled, forgetting myself. “Thank you, Mike.”

Upon leaving the office, I headed home to shower and change before heading out to the Ivy, as my junior assistant had suggested. It brimmed with bespoke furnishings and white-glove service, offering drinks at a price even I found steep. Presidential chairs were positioned around the fireplace, leather couches around which slim end or coffee tables were ensconced, with potted plants adjacent and stylish lettering upon the bathrooms. All of the men wore suits, standing in pairs or sitting in groups, easily aged thirty-five or up and glancing more or less in my direction as I arrived. Pretending not to notice their gazes; I realised I too, was now one of these middle-aged men, but with the presence of money and status that comes with being a prominent player in Manhattan.

Their gazes followed me, no longer for the reasons that my youth and dewy-eyed innocence once commanded, as I ordered a glass of water from the polite bartender, sipping it and catching the glance of the men who, to be polite, nodded or smiled.

“Come here often?” asked the bartender, vacant for the moment, to straighten a drinks menu and smooth lint from his lapels.

“I’ve never been here before,” I answered, still getting used to avoiding using doublespeak.

At this, there was nothing more to say and he took the hint, serving another patron. The atmosphere crackled with quiet energy; the flames roared in the grate and jazz mixed with saxophone over the intercom, but all I thought was: this is elegant, but I’m sure interested in more than this. I fought back the itch to check my cell phone; to give in to the inescapable fact of Manhattan life that work creates an interference in otherwise social situations.

“Hey,” introduced a man who had departed from his drinking buddy to approach me, hand outstretched. “I’m Mitch.”

“Daniel,” I smiled, trying to stay calm. It’s just a business situation - not a personal one.

“My partner and I - “ he indicated the well-dressed man who waited nearby. “We’re going to head down to Atlas if you’d like to come.”

“I’m not familiar with that bar.”

“It’s about ten blocks east. Sort of a water hole for our age group.”

Could he tell I was older than him? Both he and his buddy, who had approached silently but surely, as all Americans lacked humility. Both looked barely over thirty.

“That would be nice,” I said politely, and at this the other raised his eyebrows.

“We’re not at work. You can lay off the formalities,” he grinned.

I let my composure slip and replied with a smile of my own. “Lead the way.”

Once outside, they called for a car within a matter of minutes and Mitch gave the address, after introducing his friend as William. Both appeared to know each other quite well; the conversation didn’t pick up until the sedan was halfway across midtown, pouring themselves spring water from the minibar.

“So, Daniel, what do you do for fun?” William glanced down at my suit; both of them wore dress shirts and well-cut jeans. Self-consciously, I removed my jacket.

“Usually read at home, or try to break from work,” I smiled. Honestly, it felt like I was young again - like my peers held no equal. “What do you do?”

“I’m a corporate executive at Bear Stearns,” William indicated the chauffeur who drove us. “Mitch is - “

“I’m a tax lawyer on Wall Street,” he smiled broadly, pretending to downplay his ego. “How about you?”

Stiffly, I replied, “I work at Conde Nast.”

“Doing what?”

“I run Details magazine,” I replied.

“Excuse me?” they pretended not to have heard.

“I’m the editor-in-chief,” I stated, clipped for having to include this honorific which would no doubt, make us no longer equals and create a social divide. However, predictably, they merely lit up and gabbed away, countless questions as to how a captain of industry - especially one who didn’t look forty - was out searching for a man on a Friday night.

These compliments regarding my age notwithstanding, the elements of my life which were controlled by society’s perception of my power and prestige quickly tired me. I had no interest in discussing the semantics of my position. I just wanted to have fun.

We arrived at Atlas bar, two stories high with a balcony deck on top. Real estate as it was in Manhattan, men - and some women - were packed into the confines of the relatively limited space in which featured well-lit corridors and ample function, but overall struggled to contain the masses of conversing, paying, impatient patrons.

Hanging my jacket over my arm, ignoring the impact my admission had made on these new people, I surveyed the crowd which seemed at best, between twenty-five and thirty-five, if that. My suit was sure to make me stick out, an unnecessary formality, then I realised that the sombre lighting and overall crowd muster would hide what I was sure was enough lines of my face to mark me out as a loner in any crowd territory.

These rationalisations were useless, I realised. So what if I was thirty-five going on forty? I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and joined the deluge of cologne, tanned arms, delight and rapture.

It felt like an eternity seemed to slide from my shoulders when I breathed in the audible air of excitement that pervaded my very being. This is what it is like to enjoy life!

Fun. Cacophony, splendour, releasing my spirits to the elements above. I could not imagine a greater feeling. Where had this been all my life?

I returned to my apartment at three in the morning. How could time have flown so quickly? Gratified I fell on top of my bed, breathless with pleasure, woozy with the stimulation, unused to such succumbing of devotion and pleasure and hedonistic grandeur.


	49. Unleashed

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” I felt my chest breathe in and exhale, my shoulders relaxing into a comportment of relief. “I’m done. I’ll be handing in my resignation and officially leaving once my replacement is properly trained.”

“This will - this is a mistake, sir. Please reconsider - “

“I have. This is the best course of action for me, and all concerned. Please do know how much I’ve appreciated your service and to what ends you’ve helped me achieve. But it’s time to move on.”

I hung up the phone and stood from my desk to open the double doors myself, revealing a startled Jessica and Mike.

“Sir?” asked Jessica, the phone call she was conducting hanging on the periphery.

“Schedule a meeting with Mr Newhouse,” I told her, glancing next to Mike. “Please order my lunch. Thank you, Mike.”

Within a series of hours, the process had been put in motion. I had submitted my resignation in person to Mr Newhouse, who had taken it cordially enough but not without some restraint on his part. I suggested some replacements, but all in all I didn’t care. I was going home. My assistants were shocked, to say the least. My resignation had completely taken them by surprise.

“I’ll issue recommendations which will get you hired anywhere in the state,” I told them, while they watched me with wide eyes. “That is, unless you want to stay here.”   
Glumly, they realised their careers had taken a stepping stone. While ecstatic to move on, they weren’t terribly burdened by what had been my emerging good persona. It was just that I was planning to do it all myself from now on and enjoy my time alone.

“It’s been a pleasure working with you two,” I noted. “Both of you are extremely competent. I hope if there’s anything I can do to help you further, do let me know.”

To which they vigorously shook their heads and insisted I had done more for them than I could ever know.

“Well,” I fiddled with my cufflinks, unable to stop the spontaneous smile spreading across my face. “This’ll be fun, won’t it?”

On my last day at Details - Conde Nast, the organisation in which I had built the foundation of my life - I pushed through the rotating, glass doors in the lobby and strode across the marble tiles, nodding a smile to the security guard who, amazed himself, buzzed me through.

The elevator was silent though I was not the only one inside; people seemed to unthaw in my now-happier presence. They wondered what change I had undergone and almost missed what would’ve been a more tolerable boss, but at what cost to the magazine?

I had exhausted my effort and potential and was content to relax with my feet up for a long while to come.

Passing through zigzagging corridors into my anteroom, I met Jessica and Michael who had scrubbed up specially for this, my last day in office. They beamed genuine smiles while one took my coat and the other issued me with the list of calls that morning, while I entered my office where breakfast was laid out, my magazine and newspapers on the underlit table, a steaming hot Starbucks coffee atop its coaster.

I rested at my desk, preparing the last of the material my replacement would need before taking over. I had met him before in my business dealings and while he was inadequate in experience, he had the necessary tenacity to whip a magazine into shape.

“We would like to thank Daniel Spencer for his commitment to excellence that he has shown as director of Details’ success,” spoke gravelly Mr Newhouse, atop a podium to the packed room of round tables featuring fine china and Conde Nast personnel.

Amid applause, I shook his hand and replaced him, glancing around at the Americans who, at their behest, I had taken affront and risen higher in the ranks that any had thought I could go.

“I would like to thank you all… it has truly been a great pleasure to know, understand and see how the American public views publishing… and the people who help make it a success. I will treasure the memories. You have all helped me so much, here, today.”

When the chauffeured car pulled up outside my apartment building, I still couldn’t believe how alive I felt. All the tinglings and tugs toward duty had disappeared into thin air…

“Sir?” I jerked awake, for the chauffeur nervously glanced over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Graham,” I clapped him on the shoulder, a thoroughly American thing to do. “It has been… great.”

I stumbled a little from the car, which to any observer seemed as though I was inebriated but I didn’t care; I was high on  _ life _ . I smiled at an elderly couple draped in expensive clothing who passed me, returning nervous grimaces and tottering past.

Alone in the elevator, I felt the chinks of my armor not only falling off, but no longer would their weight descend upon my shoulders. Not a moment before unlocking my door, I fell to my feet in a paroxysm of shuddering, debilitating, hair-rending grief, heart-wrenching joy and unbelievable release. I twitched like a bug on the floor, crawling through the apartment on my hands and knees, barely making it to the bed and slumping to sleep in a manner of minutes. My duty was done and dusted. It was only me now.


	50. Fulfilled

The silence stretched before me like a canvas pulled tight, one of seamless blues untouched by the disparity of white clouds. Birds flew across my vision, trees groaned with exotic fruit and the waves from the beach softly caressed the sand, which I crunched beneath my bare toes and luxuriated in the sunshine, silence and serendipity.

In and out, the waves lapped at the edges of the shore, and I had no possession to surmise how many minutes or hours passed while I lay on that beach, not in store for timekeeping of any kind. The days passed like the moons above me rose, stars twinkling in the carpet of black sky above. There was naught but heaven, and paradise here on earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this in May 2016, and while at the time Steve (Talley, of American Pie) was my ideal, I did end up meeting a (different, better) Steve two years ago...
> 
> But alas, the tragedy remains, as he was in a relationship, and we both knew it, and it had to end, and we don't see each other any more.
> 
> When I think back on it, I wonder if I am not folly to one of Elizabeth Bennet's observations about Mr Collins, that he had an "imaginary regard" for her, and that perhaps even meeting (my) Steve in the flesh, is just as ethereal as the one in this story.


End file.
